#so that anything that i startled can retreat into the shadows where I Do Not See It

[xfreischutz]

Sorry i saw your tags abt living on water and grew up in FL on a canal and a lake! There are plants that discourage bugs and citronella does help keep them at bay. We had bug lanterns for the stubborn ones but aside from a few mosquito bites or bees around the porch they were never a big issue

!!! INTERESTING...i love the idea of lakeside/seaside/rural/forest cottage living but i know the reality of living there is very different, like i didn't even think about how salt winds would be an issue for seaside living for example

i'm pretty afraid of bugs in the house though (especially the kind with lots of legs that live in the basement corners) but maybe a lakeside vacation one day.................

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Nine

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number nine is waiting in the wings but I need to add some warnings before anything else. This chapter contains mentions of blood, a small injury and fairly detailed description of cleaning said injury.

I want to dedicate this chapter to @leslie-lyman and her wonderful Stranger at my Gate fic which I absolutely love and gave me a new found love for this Pedro character. ❤❤❤

Series Master List

You’re not often scared in the bakery, even though you often work early mornings and late nights. But when you suddenly hear the rattle of the dumpster outside your back door, and a muffled gasp as if someone’s in pain, your heart flies into your throat. It’s been dark for a few hours, evening coming early as the heavy rain refused to let up. You’re clearing up after preparing for next weekend’s wedding cake, and it’s already late when you’re startled by the sound. Grabbing your rolling pin, you carefully nudge the back door open and peer out into the dim light, rain dripping down from the eaves of the building. The glow of the street lamps don’t reach too far and most of the back yard is cast in shadows, made even dimmer by the heavy rain. But you see the source of the disturbance straight away, a man is crouched down by the dumpster, his hand held tight to his chest as he curses in a low voice. 

You clear your throat lightly, “Umm, are you ok?” you ask. 

The man immediately snaps his eyes to you and straightens up, his hand still cradled against his chest, but his other hand drops to his hip and for a fearful second you think he’s reaching for a gun. But his hand pats his side and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he quickly scans the ground around him and curses again, giving an exasperated sigh and briefly glancing up at the sky. 

You’re not sure if you should slam the door shut and lock it, but the way he winces when the movement jostles his hand keeps you from retreating. 

“Is your hand hurt? Do you need some help?” you ask, still only opening the door a little bit. The man sighs again and nods, looking up at you. 

“I think I cut it when I fell,” he replies, looking down at his hand and carefully unfurling his fist. 

“Ok…” you say, trying to figure out what to do, let an injured stranger into your kitchen late at night, or just call an ambulance? 

“How bad is it?” you ask, “Can I see it?” 

The man nods and cautiously holds out his hand, but doesn’t make a move to come closer, and you suddenly realize that he looks a lot more hesitant than you feel, his eyebrows are bunched together, and mistrust is written across his dark features. 

“Uhm…could you maybe come over here, the light’s better,” you say gently, opening the door a little more and, in a sudden decision, put the rolling pin on the shelf behind you. The action seems to earn you a bit of trust and the man takes a few tentative steps forward into the light. He holds out his hand and you step down on to the stairs and look at it. 

“There’s quite a bit of blood,” you say, carefully nudging his fingers tips back so that he opens his palm a bit more. 

“Hands always bleed a lot,” the man says curtly, “It’s not my first injury, and I can move my fingers, I just need to clean it.” 

He has an accent that makes you look up at his face as he speaks, his voice low and rough but not unpleasant. The scar that cuts across his left eye draws your attention, and when he catches you looking at his face he meets your eyes, his eyebrows still bunched together as he points with his good hand to the scar. 

“Does it scare you?” he asks, scowling, and you pull back from where your fingers were gently touching his injured hand. 

“Should I be scared?” you ask in return, challenging him a little with your tone. 

“No, not if you don’t intend to steal from me,” he says, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He’s a sorry sight, wet to the bone by the looks of it, injured and bleeding, and he’s worried you’ll steal from him? 

“I promise I won’t steal from you,” you smile softly, taking a step back and opening your door wider, letting him in, “C’mon in, you look soaked.” 

He hesitates for a few moments, glancing around him and then back at you. 

“Thank you,” he nods, not smiling, the scowl a permanent fixture on his face, as you lead him through the back room and into the kitchen. 

He looks around the space with cautious eyes as you go to the sink, and as you turn, you notice his clothes for the first time. He’s dressed head to toe in faded black, an old fashioned shirt billows half way down his thighs. Underneath you can see dirty trousers and well worn leather boots with an intricate pattern in the leather. He looks very much out of place, especially as he widens his eyes and seems to stare at the water running from the tap into your sink. 

“Are you ok?” you ask for the second time of the night, tilting your head and giving him a worried look. Maybe he’s hit his head too, he looks dazed when you motion him over to the sink. 

He gives a curt nod, still looking at the streaming water as he takes a few tentative steps forward. 

“It might sting a bit but rinse it out and I’ll get my first aid kit,” you tell him, handing him a roll of paper towels, “And I think I have an old hoodie that might fit you, if you want to change out of that wet shirt?” 

Confusion flits across his face again as you speak, his guarded eyes moving between the water and you, but eventually he carefully puts his hand under the stream. As you fetch the first aid kit and the hoodie, you hear him wince and mutter low curses in a language you can’t make out. 

You put the hoodie on the bench next to the sink and open up the first aid kit, pulling out the disinfectant and motioning the man to sit on the stool you’ve rolled over. 

“Do you know what you cut yourself on?” you ask as the stranger watches blood drip from the gash on his palm into the sink. 

“Broken glass, I think,” he mutters, “it was too dark to see but the cut looks sharp and clean.” 

“It does, it should be fairly easy to patch up as long as we get it clean,” you reply, unscrewing the disinfectant, “Do you want to clean it yourself, or do you want me to do it?” 

He looks up at you then, the scowl on his face softening into what you think might be surprise. He hesitates, but then he holds out his hand to you. 

“Please.” 

“Ok then,” you reply, ���this shouldn’t sting too much but let me know if it hurts.” 

“I’ve had worse injuries,” he replies and you glance up at the scar across his eye.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No, I know,” he interrupts, “but I don't want you to worry you’ll cause me pain.” His tone is low, almost hesitant, as if the sincerity in his voice is unfamiliar to him. Your eyes meet his for a few moments as you both try to find balance with the person looking back, you can feel a shift in the room. Nervously you swallow and look down at the strange man’s hand. You realize you don’t know anything about him yet, not even his name, so to distract him from what you need to do, you start talking again. 

“You have an accent I can’t place,” you say as you gently make him open his hand, water still streaming over the cut, “but it’s very beautiful,” you give him a small smile as you glance up and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It is,” you giggle at his dismay, “I like your accent.” 

“Thank you,” he mutters, looking almost ashamed and you change the subject. 

“What’s your name?” you ask instead, turning off the water and starting to drizzle disinfectant over his hand. 

“Pero Tovar,” he replies, and the way he rolls the r’s in his name sends a little shiver of pleasure down your back.

“Pero Tovar,” you repeat, trying to roll the r the way he does, but you can tell from his small chuckle that you’re not successful. 

“Almost,” he says and when you look up, you catch the smallest of smiles on his face. 

A sharp hiss from Pero pulls your attention back to his hand. He’s opened the hand flat to let the liquid rinse his injury, but the movement has revealed a small shard of glass still pressed in at the edge of the cut. 

You quickly reach into the first aid kit for the tweezers and take hold of his wrist, bending down to grasp at the edge of the shard. 

“This might sting, but I’ll try to be quick,” you say and Pero grunts in response as you pull the sliver of glass out of the cut, dropping it in the sink. 

“I think that’s all, how does it feel?” you ask him and Pero gingerly moves his fingers as you drizzle more disinfectant over his hand. 

“Better,” he nods as you turn to take out what you need to close the cut from the first aid kit. 

“You’re lucky you ended up at front of my door, Pero,” you say, “I’m an expert at cutting my fingers, and therefore, an expert at taking care of them too.” 

The man only grunts in response, tugging at his shirt and you suddenly hear it rip, as he pulls a strip from the hem. 

“Tie this around my hand, it will stop the bleeding and then I’ll leave,” he says, “Thank you for your help.” 

“Pero, that’s dirty, you can’t put that around your hand,” you exclaim as he holds out the rag to you. 

“It will do,” he scowls, “it’s what I usually do.” 

“You’ll get an infection, please, let me put a proper bandage on it,” you point to the sterile compress and Pero’s eyes narrow as if he’s considering a potential risk, before he glances back at the door where the heavy rain can still be heard. Then he nods, looking at you again, dropping the dirty strip from his shirt on the edge of the sink. 

It doesn’t take you long to bandage up his hand, wrapping surgical tape around the back to keep the compress in place. As you turn his hand over and press down the tape you can’t help but notice the many faded scars that marr his skin, and you run your finger lightly over a long one. 

“A knife,” Pero mutters, and you look up at him. “A thief tried to take my coins and he had a hidden blade. It was a nasty fight.” 

“It looks like you’ve been in a lot of fights, Pero,” you say, touching an uneven scar from something slashed across his wrist. 

He doesn’t reply to that, just grunts again and pulls his hand back, getting back up from the stool. But he doesn’t get far, on unsteady legs he stumbles across the floor and puts his uninjured hand out to balance himself, briefly closing his eyes. 

“Careful,” you say, reaching out to steady him, your hands on his wet shirt, as he suddenly sinks down to the floor, his back against one of the shelves, “you’re very pale, maybe you need a few minutes rest?” 

Pero shakes his head with another grunt, “No, I should..” he tries to stand up again but sinks back down, his eyes closing as he tips his head to his chest, breathing hard through his nose. 

“At least change your wet shirt, please,” you say, grabbing the dry hoodie from the bench and holding it out to him and Pero opens his eyes, “you’ll feel better if you’re dry.” 

He regards the hoodie for a few seconds before giving in, taking it from you. You turn your back to give him some privacy and you hear him tug the shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet sound. 

“Thank you,” comes his rough voice from behind a few seconds later and you glance over your shoulder. The navy hoodie fits him and he’s leaned back against the wall again with his eyes closed, his skin still paler than you suspect that it should be. 

You open one of your storage cupboards and pull out a container, bringing it over to Pero together with a bottle of water. Kneeling down in front of him you peel open the lid and hold it out to him. 

“Here, your blood sugar is probably low, maybe a bit of shock, have a couple of these,” you offer him and Pero opens his eyes enough to see the cookies that are starting to spread their chocolate scent. They widen further when he sees them clearly, darting up to look at you before he tentatively takes one and flips it over in his hand. He smells it and then takes a careful bite. 

His reaction flips a switch in your head, a light bulb moment, as his eyebrows furrow at the flavor. His tongue comes out, almost as if he’s about to spit the cookie out, before he grimaces and swallows, eyeing the rest of the cookie with suspicion. 

“Pero…” you ask hesitantly, “where are you from?” 

He looks up at you for a beat before he answers, running his tongue over his lips. 

“Asturias,” he says, “but I haven’t been back in many years.” 

“In Spain?” 

“España, sí,” he nods, eyeing the cookie in his hand, “This…this food is very…sweet?” He looks up at you again and almost looks apologetic as he brings it to his mouth again. 

“You don’t like it?” you ask, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, maybe it’s too sweet for your palate.” 

“I’ve never tasted something so sweet before, I’m not sure…” he trails off, taking a small bite again. 

The penny drops, impossible as it may seem, but his clothes, his wide eyed reactions to your kitchen, the fear and mistrust, the pieces seem to fit together, and you sink down on the floor in front of Pero, the container of cookies forgotten next to you. 

“Pero…” you begin again and he tilts his head as you seem to study the pattern on his well worn leather boots, “A-are you…do you…w-where…- “

“I’m not from your time,” he interrupts your stuttering question, holding your eyes as you meet his gaze, your eyes are the ones that widen this time. 

“How?” is all you manage and he shrugs. 

“I do not know, a curse, a blessing, just chance?” he shrugs again, “All I remember is darkness and then bright lights, as bright as the sun, but much closer, a terrible noise, and then I ran.” 

“Here?” 

He shakes his head, “Not first, I think that was yesterday, or maybe two days ago, I found somewhere to hide, a small tunnel, but the rain made the water rise too high so I was forced to leave.” 

“You must be hungry, Pero,” you suddenly realize, “how long has it been since you last ate properly?” 

“Two days, maybe three,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his belly that rumbles at the mention of proper food. 

“I haven’t got anything but hang on, I’ll order something,” you go to stand up when you realize he won’t understand what that means. Your head suddenly reels with the implication of having Pero in your kitchen. 

“I mean, I’ll make someone bring food, but don’t worry, I won’t say anything about you,” you hurry to add as you see him shake his head. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, looking relieved, “I don’t know what dark forces brought me here, but it doesn’t feel safe.” 

“Just wait here, I’ll be right back,” you say to him, leaving him sitting on the floor, “You’re safe here, I promise.” 

You hurry out to the shop and pull out your phone to place an order through the delivery app when you’re suddenly stumped, what the hell would Pero be most comfortable eating? A stew maybe? Meat, veggies and bread seems like something people have eaten through the centuries, so you quickly scroll through the options and find a local place that offers Boeuf Bourguignon. A rich, hearty stew must be something Pero will be familiar with even if it’s not exactly something he’s eaten before. You quickly place the order and hurry back to the kitchen to find Pero getting to his feet, holding on to the shelf for support. 

“Someone is coming over with a meat stew, how does that sound?” you ask and Pero nods. 

“Thank you,” he replies, letting go of the shelf and standing a big steadier this time. 

“I have some bread and butter for you while we wait, it’s stale bread, but it might make you feel a bit better.” 

“Thank you”, he says again and you go to your big walk-in fridge and pull it open. Pero follows you cautiously and peers into the large space. 

“It’s cold?” he says, taking a tentative step into the fridge. 

“It’s a special cold storage,” you explain, “it stays cold even though it’s warm outside, the food stays fresh longer in here.” 

Pero nods as if he understands exactly what you mean but you can tell by the way his eyes scan the shelves that he’s distracted by the produce that lines them. 

“Would you like to try something?” you ask, “Maybe some fruit?” 

He looks over at you and nods carefully, as if he’s uncertain if he should say yes and you’re suddenly hit by how much mistrust he holds on to. Even though he’s a little bit more relaxed now than when he first arrived, it’s clear that he’s not a man used to trusting people easily, and just the simple gesture of accepting the apple you hold out to him seems to test his instinctual reaction to say no. 

You take the butter from the shelf, fish one of yesterday’s loaves from the bread basket and slice it up on the counter while Pero slowly walks around your kitchen, the apple you notice, is already gone. 

“Here, eat this, slowly, it should help you feel better.” 

“Thank you,” he replies again, taking the thick piece of bread and carefully smelling it just like he had with the cookie. You cut yourself a slice and spread butter on it before biting in to it and jumping up on the work bench surface. 

“It’s not poison, I promise,” you wink at Pero and he scowls back at you, but it’s not intimidating this time, there’s a slight smirk to it as he realizes you’re teasing him. 

“I’ve never seen bread this white,” he says, coming over to the bench and heaving himself on to it too, “Bread where I come from is much rougher, this is like something a king would eat I think.” 

“It’s just the way the flour is milled and sifted,” you explain, “we make bread the same way now as we’ve always done. Water, flour and salt.” 

Pero takes a large bite as you speak and he hums as he chews, “It tastes almost the same,” he says, “I like it.” He takes another big bite and the whole slice disappears within a minute. 

“I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him, “I made it, I’m a baker.” 

“You’re a baker?” Pero asks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“We still have bakers in our time,” you laugh but Pero shakes his head. 

“I thought it would be your husband who baked, I have never met a woman baker.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose that would’ve been pretty unusual back in your time,” you say, smiling at Pero’s surprise, “Many of the jobs only men did in your days are now done by women too, a lot has changed that way. And I have no husband.” 

Pero seems to consider this for a few moments while he eyes the loaf sitting on the counter across the kitchen. 

“Do you want another slice?” you ask him and he nods. 

“Yes, it was very good bread.” 

“Go on then, but remember there’s meat stew on the way so don’t eat too much or you might be sick,” you say and he slides off the workbench and grabs the  knife. 

“It’s good that you can be a baker too,” he says as he slices the bread, “I’ve seen women be warriors, generals even, why should women not be able to have the same professions as men?” 

“You’re pretty progressive, Pero,” you smile, “not even all men nowadays would agree with that.” 

“Fools,” he scowls, buttering the slice and coming back over to you, “I’ve seen many strange things in your time, but nothing that a woman couldn’t do as well as a man. The general I knew would scare the wits out of the men I’ve seen here so far.” 

“What year are you from, Pero?” you ask and he shrugs, it seems to be his standard response when he has no answer. 

“I do not know, I’m a sell-sword, a mercenary, what year the priest  says it is doesn’t matter to someone like me.” 

You think back to your high school history lessons, chewing your bread as you try to figure out how to pinpoint what age he might be from.

“Are there any big events you know of that happened in your time?” you ask and Pero furrows his brow for a few seconds before he shakes his head. 

“I’m not educated, I can write my name, read a little, but that’s it,” he shrugs again, swallowing the last piece of bread, “I follow whoever pays my wages and don’t ask questions.” 

His face softens slightly as he sees the disappointment in your face and he turns towards you, “I apologize, these things are not important to me, but I wish I’d paid more attention to them now, so that I could tell you more about where I’m from.” 

“It’s alright, Pero,” you say, giving him a smile, “I’m just curious, just tell me to stop asking so many questions.” 

He actually chuckles at that, only the second time you’ve heard him laugh and it makes you feel warm as his face transforms into a beautiful smile. 

“Ask as many as you want, you’re feeding me, you patched me up, you’ve shown much more kindness than a broken sell-sword could ever expect. The least I can do is to feed your curious mind.” 

Now it’s your turn to shrug, “It was nothing, you were hurt, I couldn’t leave you out in the rain, anyone would’ve done the same.” 

Pero tilts his head to the side and regards you with wonder, “Maybe your world is very different, querida…” he says as he tentatively reaches out and carefully wraps the fingers of his good hand around yours, “but in my world, I don’t know anyone who would’ve looked at my scarred face and let me in.” 

He gently lifts your hand and brings the back of it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, before holding it to his heart. 

“Thank you.” 

You feel heat rush to your face as he places your hand back on the bench, letting go of it as you fumble for something to say and coming up with nothing, just biting your lip and nodding as he continues to look at you, his face unreadable but gentle. 

“What do you bake, apart from bread?” he asks after what feels like an eternity and your brain still hasn’t kicked back into gear, the warm mark of his chapped lips still on the back of your hand. 

“Ahh…most things,” you stumble, “cakes for weddings, for feasts, cookies and pastries, anything sweet really, if people want it.” A thought suddenly hits you, “Do you have a favorite, Pero? Maybe something I could make for you here?” 

He looks taken back by the question, starting by shaking his head almost on impulse, “No, I never had cake, or sweet things, maybe just a simple fruit pie if I had coin, but it has been rare. Although….” he suddenly looks up, his words lost in thought as he looks at you as if you know the answer to what he's thinking of. 

“There was a baker in my hometown, he was not from Asturias. He made sweet bread from Albion, with dried fruit and honey,” Pero licks his lips at the memory and grins, “that was the best bread I ever had, he would give me the scraps if he burnt a loaf and even burnt, it tasted like heaven.” 

“Albion,” you hum, thinking out loud, “that’s the old name for Britain, so maybe he made something like barmbrack, or bara brith…” you slide off the workbench and go over to the bookshelf and run your finger along the spines of the books. “But what dried fruit would they have then? Raisins? Maybe…the Romans made wine in Britannia after all, the climate was warmer… maybe apricots? Cherries?” You pull out a well worn copy of The Love of Cooking, and take it back to the work bench as Pero regards you with a curious grin. As you flip the book open his eyes go wide as he sees the colored photographs of food, the fine print in neat rows. 

“This is a book?” he asks, carefully sliding his fingertips over the page and you nod. 

“They invented a machine that can make copies of what we write very fast, so they’re cheap to buy nowadays,” you explain as you flip back to the index, looking up barmbrack, “I think this recipe might be similar to what you’re familiar with,” you say, finding the right page and pointing to a dark loaf filled with dried fruit. 

“Can you make it?” Pero asks, his eyes locked on the image as if he wants to chew on the paper and you smile. 

“It’s a pretty fast thing to make, if I make it now it’ll be done by the time we’ve had our dinner.” Pero’s eyes are still glued to the page, a hungry expression on his face.

“I would very much like that,” he says, tearing his gaze away and grinning at you, “Put me to work, what can I do?” 

“You want to help?” 

“Of course, teach me how to bake, mistress baker,” he winks and again his usually scowling face is transformed, a warm smile lighting up his sharp features as his brown eyes soften. You smile back at him, marveling at how he transforms from a sourly looking soldier to a handsome man when he lets himself smile. 

“Ok then, Pero,” you grin, “time to learn a new profession.” 

Under your direction Pero pulls out the necessary ingredients and tools, making comments about the flimsy quality of the metal in your kitchen. 

“This would not hold up in a kitchen or on a battlefield,” he remarks, holding up one of your stainless steel bowls, “It would melt over a fire and even a child’s arrow would pierces this, I’m sure.” 

“It’s stronger than you think,” you laugh, setting a bag of dried cherries down on the workbench and giving one to Pero to try. He sucks on it, smiling at the familiar flavor, and nods in approval as he goes in search of a knife. He finds your custom chef knife, your name stamped along the blade, and this is the only item that gets his commendation. 

“This is a good weapon, querida, if any more strange men turn up at your door. You should keep it on you at all times,” he says, effortlessly spinning the knife in his hand, testing its weight and balance. 

“I hope no more strange men come tumbling into my backyard,” you laugh, “what would I do with you all?” 

“If fate lets me, I’ll stay here and keep you safe, just feed me,” he grins, coming to stand next to you and placing the knife on the workbench. 

“That sounds like a good deal for me, Pero,” you smile back at him and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, a beautiful sound in your kitchen, his rough voice smoothed out by the warm vibrations. 

“Querida, even if you only fed me your bread and butter, I would be the winner in that deal; a full belly and a beautiful mistress? What man could ask for more?” 

He sees the way your shy smile reaches your eyes before you look down at your hands on the recipe book. Heat creeps up your neck and you have to squeeze your lips together to stop a silly grin from splitting your face open. You can feel Pero’s smiling eyes on you as he waits for your reply, and when he wraps his fingers around your hand on the book, you almost jump, his grip a gentle touch. The fingers on his other hand find your chin, softly bringing your face up to look up at him. 

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, the rough pad of his thumb caressing your chin as your heart rate picks up and you part your lips.  

“Now put me to work,” he smiles, “So I can have this fruit bread again.” 

You draw a deep breath, your heart fluttering in your chest as you pull your eyes away from Pero and down to the recipe. 

“S-so…ok, we need tea, I’ll make that if you fill this with flour and put it in the bowl. Then crack an egg in there too.” 

“Your wish is my command, mistress,” Pero replies and your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t help the wide smile and it makes Pero grin as you fumble for a saucepan to fill with water. 

He completes the tasks you set him, and then comes to stand next to you as you spoon tea leaves into the kettle and pour the boiling water over it. 

“I visited China once,” he says, “They drank black tea, it’s strange to see it here too.” 

“This tea comes from China, we started importing it a long time ago. I’m going to soak the fruit in the tea, it really should sit overnight but it works like this too, just a bit less flavor.” 

What Pero said suddenly hits you, and you turn to look at him as he stirs the dried fruit through the tea, “You went to China? That must’ve been such a long journey?” 

Pero nods, his face falling back to his default scowl as he pulls his eyebrows together at the memory. 

“It was very long, dusty and dangerous. Both there and going home, I’ll tell you about it someday when you know me better, but you’ll still think I’m a liar, it’s a hard story to believe.” 

“Sounds like it was an adventure,” you reply and Pero shrugs, shaking his head a little. 

“A storyteller would call it an adventure, I would call it a terrifying nightmare,” he grumbles, taking the fruit back to the workbench and changing the subject, “I can’t read your book, what should I do now?” 

You pass him a loaf tin, “Smear this with butter and I’ll mix the rest of the ingredients together.” 

Pero nods and takes the butter in his good hand and gets to work while you mix the dough. You leave out some of the spices that would be too foreign to Pero you think, and reduce the sugar a bit. From the corner of your eye you see Pero watching you work, and as you mix the fruit into the dough you glance up at him and give him a small smile. He looks lost in thought for a moment, before he smiles back at you, a much softer looking man as he almost seems to be shy, handing you the prepared tin. 

“You look very capable,” he says, taking a few small steps closer to look at the dough, “more capable than any baker I’ve ever seen.” 

“Thank you, Pero,” you reply, smiling to yourself as you pick up the bowl to tip the dough into the tin. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” you exclaim and put the bowl back on the counter, hurrying over to your small desk while Pero looks surprised. From a box you remove a gold ring and quickly wash it in the sink. Bringing it back to Pero you hold it up. 

“It’s tradition to mix items into the barmbrack, some things for bad luck, some for good luck. But I prefer adding only things for good luck so I usually add this ring. It was my grandmother’s wedding ring and she was a baker too,” you flip the ring over and show the date written on the inside of the ring, “June sixth, nineteen forty-one, her wedding day.”

“It will bring luck?” Pero asks and you nod. 

“Whoever finds it in the cake will have good luck,” you reply, “Well, as it’s a ring it’s meant to mean that you’re getting married within a year, but I prefer to think of it as good luck.” 

“I’ve heard of superstitions like this one before,” Pero says, “I don’t know if I believe in them, but it’s probably not wise to ignore them.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” you smile as you toss the ring into the dough and mix it again, “I’m just going to put the dough in the tin and then bake it.” 

You’re interrupted by the doorbell on the front door, and you look towards the shop. 

“That’s our food I think, take over here and I’ll go pick it up,” you say, handing the bowl to Pero. You hurry to the door and tip the delivery guy, bringing back a bag of food. Peros is carefully patting down the dough with serious concentration and it makes you smile to see him looking so focused on his job. 

“It looks great, Pero,” you say and he looks up, giving you a quick smile. You’re struck by the difference a little bit of time with him has made, his distrust has disappeared, replaced by curious looks and grins. You realize again how handsome he is as he stands up and holds out the tin to you, his deep brown eyes warm instead of cautious, and the near permanent downward turn of his mouth has been replaced by the soft smile he gives you as you take the tin from him.

“Thanks,” you say and hand him the bag, “There’s food in there, get us set up while I put this in the oven, then we can eat.”

Pero inhales deeply as the scent reaches his nose and his stomach growls as he hastily grabs the bags and looks for a spot to sit. 

The oven is ready to go so you just put the barmbrack in and turn back to Pero, grabbing cutlery as you go. He’s on the floor, leaning against the bookshelf again, and is unpacking the food. Sinking down next to him, you groan at the relief of getting off your feet and sitting down. You tip your head back against the bookshelf and let slip a deep sigh that turns into a yawn. Pero chuckles next to you as he peels the lid off one of the containers. 

“You’re yawning but I’m the one who spent a night inside a cramped tunnel,” he says and you clamp your hand over your mouth, giggling.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I get up very early to bake every morning,” you say, stifling another yawn as Pero picks up one of the containers with stew, looking at it with hungry eyes. 

“It smells incredible,” he says, taking the spoon you hand him.

“Eat, Pero, you look hungry,” you smile and he flashes you a quick grin before digging in. 

The stew is good, rich and hearty, with big chunks of meat. Pero demolishes his portion and you get the rest of the loaf of bread, watching him tear chunks out of it to mop up the sauce. You’re sitting close together, his shoulder against yours, the warmth of his body a comfortable presence against your arm as you eat in silence. Pero groans as he does so, a deep moan escaping him when he scrapes up the sauce.  

“Feeling better?” you ask as he swallows the last piece of bread and sets the container down on the floor. He nods and tips his head back towards the bookshelf with a contented sigh. 

“Yes, much better, it was the best stew I’ve ever had,” he says, tilting his head to look over at you, “A full belly and your company, you’ve cured me.” 

“Happy I could help  you,” you smile at him, “you seemed a bit lost.” 

“I still am,” he says, his eyes slipping down to your lips, almost as if he doesn’t notice he’s done it, until he catches himself and snaps them back up and meets your eyes, “But I feel…safe, I think, here. With you.”  

His voice is low, softer than before, a quiet rasp in the silent kitchen. The rain is still rushing down outside and the white noise wraps you in a bubble as he carefully moves closer. You feel his hand, rough and calloused, come up and gently stroke your face, his eyes watching his fingers trail along the edge of your jaw, cupping your cheek and letting his thumb run over your bottom lip. 

“So soft,” he whispers, his breath tickling your lips as you close your eyes. 

The kiss is gentle, featherlight, but he stays close, pressing his lips against yours again and again, and you relish in the hushed words he whispers in another language, praise you can’t understand. But the way his lips never leave yours for more than a second, his reverent tone in every phrase, makes you feel cherished as his words wrap around you. 

When he lingers against your lips, you bring your hand up and touch his cheek, slipping your hand around his neck, holding him close so that he knows he can stay. You hear a rumble in his chest as he pulls you in closer, pulling you over his lap, his arm coming around your waist to keep steady, the other still cupping your cheek. You test his mouth, the slight parting of his lips where his soft bottom lip has a divot, and he groans, pulling you impossibly closer. His hair is still damp when you curl your fingers into it, still dirty from two days of wherever he managed to seek shelter when he first fell into this time. But under it, he’s warm and solid, his mouth hungry as he opens up and lets his tongue taste yours. 

Pero grows bolder as you guide him, pulling your leg over his lap so that you straddle him. As your hands caress his hair and explore the firm muscles of his shoulders, he seeks out the edge between your shirt and your trousers. The skin there is soft and smooth and he runs his hands over your waist, mumbling into your mouth between kisses. He pulls back a fraction and lets his hands slide high up on your back, under your shirt, pressing you into his chest.  

“Hermosa…” he whispers, “you’re so soft, your skin is like silk under my rough hands, so soft, warm, I’ve never…” he trails off, reaching up to claim your mouth again and you bend down to meet him. You can feel him grow hard under you, he’s holding back from rutting up, panting harder as his fingers dig into your waist. Gently you pull back from him and lean your forehead against his. 

“Pero…Pero…Pero…” you whisper, catching your breath as his grip on your loosens, his hands resuming their soft caresses up and down your back. 

“Querida,” he smiles, pulling back a little so that he can look at you, his dark eyes warm now, softer than ever, as he brings up a hand to cup your cheek again. 

“Come home with me tonight, I can’t send you away to sleep in a tunnel again,” you whisper, closing your eyes as his fingers trace across your lips. 

“You would let me?” he asks quietly, “You trust me, a stranger?” His hand goes still on your cheek and you look at him again. 

“You’re not a stranger anymore, Pero, I trust you. If you trust me to not steal from you that is,” the last thing you say with a small grin, and Pero laughs, a deep rumble as he wraps his arms around you again. 

“You’ve already stolen from me, querida,” he smiles, “you think all these kisses were free?” 

“I’m paying in food and more kisses,” you tease him, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose and he wrinkles it, his shoulders jumping as he laughs again. 

“Steal all my kisses, hermosa, you can have every single one.” 

Somewhere behind you the oven timer goes off and Pero stiffens for a second before he relaxes under you again. 

“Only the oven telling us the barmbrack is done,” you smile, pushing yourself off Pero’s lap and standing up. He holds out his hand for you to grab, and you pull him to his feet too. 

“Feed me,” he smiles, snaking an arm around your waist as you turn the oven off and open the door. 

“It needs to cool a bit first, I’ll put it in the fridge,” you wriggle out of his arms with a giggle as he tries to hold on to your shirt. When you close the fridge door behind you, the barmbrack safely on the shelf, he’s behind you again, bending his head to your shoulder. 

“Are you really letting me stay with you tonight?” he asks, his voice betraying that he still can’t quite believe that you’re trusting him. 

“Pero,” you reply, turning around and taking his hand, “I was scared when I first saw you outside, you looked frightening. But you also looked scared, like you needed help, and something told me I could trust you. And you’ve done nothing to make me regret that. I trust you.”

He looks at you for a few moments, uncertainty flitting across his face, “Not since I became a man has anyone seen my face and trusted me like that. No one but you.” 

“I’m sorry, Pero,” you reply but he shakes his head, suddenly crowding you, making you walk back towards the work bench. 

“If you’re the only one to trust me, I think that will be enough,” he smiles, his eyes soft again, the uncertainty gone as he puts his hands on your waist and lifts you up to sit on the counter, stepping in between your thighs. You feel him push his calloused hands under your shirt again, moving over your back, softly kneading at your curves as you pull him closer, making him bend his head to yours. 

“I trust you, Pero,” you mumble, tracing your fingers over his face, his short, uneven beard, the sharp curve of his nose, carefully moving up to gently caress the scar across his eye. He closes his eyes as you touch it, mapping the way something sharp has cut across his eyebrow, down onto his cheek. 

Pero’s hands have gone still on your waist, warm palms gripping your flesh as you reach up and press your lips to the spot over his eyebrow where the scar begins, moving your mouth further down, a brief whisper against his eyelid and then a firm kiss at the top of his cheek, the jagged point of the old injury. 

“I think whatever brought me here was a blessing,” he mumbles and you nod as he opens his eyes again to look at you. 

“I’m glad you found your way here, Pero,” you reply, moving your hands up to cradle his face, finding his lips against yours again. 

The rain continues outside, flashes of bright light shining in through the window split seconds before rolls of thunder move in. But neither of you notice, lost in the sensation of warm hands and soft lips exploring something new. Pero buries his face against your neck, inhaling deeply as you wrap your fingers around his curls. You can feel his lips leave small, wet kisses all along your neck, rubbing the cool tip of his nose against the soft spot under your ear where your pulse flutters. 

“Pero,” you mumble, pressing a kiss against the tip of his ear, and he lifts his head, meeting your eyes with a warm smile, making you kiss his lips again, losing several more minutes as you both savor the moment. 

With a giggle you finally pull away a little as he chases your lips with a protest, “Let me cut the barmbrack and then we go home,” you say and he pulls you off the counter. 

“I will take it as payment for all the kisses you have stolen,” he mumbles, pressing another one to your mouth as you laugh into it. 

The barmbrack still holds some warmth when you cut it, and the rich smell that it emits as the slices fall makes you salivate and Pero groans next to you, his hand shooting out to grab the thickest piece. 

“Wait, we need butter on it too,” you laugh, slapping his eager hand away and he repays you by sinking his teeth into your neck instead, playfully biting the soft skin. 

“It smells too good, querida,” he grumbles as you spread butter on the slice and hand it to him. 

“Impatient,” you smile at him as he takes a first giant bite of the barmbrack, grinning at you around the slice. You butter your own slice and Pero hums, muttering his praise between bites until his teeth clink against the ring. 

“Oh, you got the ring in the first slice!” you exclaim, “That’s really lucky!” 

Pero carefully spits the gold ring into his palm, “I feel like my night has already been lucky,” he smiles at you, holding out the ring for you to take it. 

“No, wash it off and then keep it, until we make a new barmbrack. It’s your lucky charm for now.” 

“Are you certain?” he asks, rinsing the crumbs and butter off the heavy gold ring at the sink, and holding out to you again. 

“Absolutely, you found it, it’s yours for now,” you say, finishing your own slice as Pero slips the ring into a pouch on his belt and eyes the rest of the loaf, “Do you want another slice, Pero?” you ask with a smile and he grins back at you. 

“It reminds me of the one I had as a child, but it tastes much better. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, coming to stand behind you as you prepare a second thick slice for him and wrap the rest of the barmbrack to take home. 

“Thank you, I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him and he takes the slice. 

“Querida, I love it,” he says, smiling back at you, “it’s almost as good as your kisses…” he quirks his eyebrows and leans in to capture your lips with his again, making you open your mouth to his eager tongue. 

“Still the best thing,” he mumbles as he pulls back a little, both you catching your breath. 

“Let’s go home,” you whisper back at him, “I’m just going to make sure everything is locked up, we’ll go out the back way."

He nods and you reluctantly disentangle yourself from him and walk out to the main shop, checking the door and the alarm. When you come back, Pero is sucking on his fingers, the second slice disappeared as fast as the first and he grins back at you as he notices your look. 

You flick off the main lights, Pero’s eyes widening in surprise as the kitchen is cast into darkness, and lead him to the backdoor and let him out. The rain is only a drizzle now but the thunder is still rumbling through the sky and Pero looks up as he goes down the stairs, waiting for you to set the alarm and lock the door. 

A bright flash of lightning cuts across the back yard, followed by a loud clap of thunder that makes you jump and let out a yelp. 

“Oh shit, that scared me,” you laugh, locking the door and turning around, pocketing the key, “the thunder must be right above us.” 

But the yard in front of you is as empty as every other night. No trace of Pero, only the dim light of the street lamps and the light patter of rain drops. 

Your heart clenches in your chest, you can still feel his lips on yours. 

It’s not until a week later that you see the article. A patron has left a newspaper behind and as you clear the table, a headline catches your eye. 

Modern ring found in 11th century grave

Archeologists at a dig in Sevilla, Spain, were surprised when excavating an 11th century grave. The site is being prepared for a new residential area and the grave is being moved to a nearby churchyard. The remains of an 11th century man was found in the grave, and around his neck was a thin gold chain, also 11th century in design. What surprised the archeologist was the modern gold wedding band hanging on the chain, with the date “June sixth, nineteen forty-one” engraved on the inside.

“The grave was undisturbed, and the chain was intact, clearly placed on the man in the grave either while he was still alive or before he was buried,” said chief archaeologist Maria Ruiz. “It’s impossible, of course, for a man from the 11th century to be in possession of a 20th century ring, but at the moment we have no explanation as to how the ring ended up in the grave with him.” 

Part Ten

Some author notes here at the end too; I don't think it's canon that Pero is from Asturias, but Tovar is an Asturian name and I have a personal connection to the region so it felt right.

I have no idea if barmbrack was a thing in 11th century Europe, the earliest sources are from the 18th century. But it's bread with fruit, seems doable in any age really. If you've never had it, give it a try, it's a very easy recipe and it goes amazing with butter and a cup of tea.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers  

[raineandsky]

#102

tw: abuse, threats, knives

The superhero barely sleeps anymore, but he can’t afford to. His mind is always haunted by one question: where has the hero gone?

His assistant lingers on the threshold to his office while he stares blankly at the table. She clears her throat when he shows no sign of acknowledging her. She holds a little envelope out to him when he glances up, his name written on the front in glittering cursive.

He reads the contents. Rereads. Looks to his assistant for answers. Receives none. Stares back down at the words on the little note in front of him.

“Well,” he says flatly, “I suppose I best go if we want the city to stay intact.”

-

The supervillain answers the door with a winning smile and a shocking amount of hospitality. 

“I’m so glad you made it,” he says brightly. He ushers the superhero into what can only be described as a mansion. Crime clearly pays well—or he likes to pretend it does. Who knows how he came into a house like this.

The supervillain sets the superhero down in an extravagant dining hall. Servants line the room, practically invisible in the shadows, almost as much of the furniture as the table and chairs in the middle of the room. Most of them have their eyes pointed to the floor.

The supervillain settles in the chair opposite and motions for one of the servants to step forward with a wine decanter. They pour it out agonisingly slowly, their focus honed in on the glass, before skirting around the table to do the same for the superhero.

The superhero startles. “Oh, there’s no need—”

“Nonsense!” the supervillain gestures for the servant to continue. “You’re my guest. Have a drink, please.”

The wine is poured. The servant steps back, their gaze flitting to the supervillain, and with the slightest nod of his head they retreat back into the shadows.

The superhero watches them go, catching the eye of one of the other servants standing on the outskirts of the room. It catches him off guard slightly—he could’ve sworn they were all staring at the floor—but after a moment to study their face he has to hold down a choked gasp.

That’s the hero. The hero he’s spent endless days searching for. The hero that disappeared off the face of the earth, who seemed to just cease to exist. The hero’s staring back at him like they’re equally stunned to see him here, their eyes wide and their jaw slack.

The quiet goes on too long. The supervillain twists in his chair to glance at whatever’s caught the superhero’s interest.

“Ah,” he says shortly. The single word seems to snap the hero out of it, their gaze immediately snapping back down to the ground. “Is my servant here bothering you?”

“You—” You invited me here on purpose. The superhero can’t think of words outraged enough. They’ve been here the whole time. “How dare you—”

“[Hero],” the supervillain says lightly. “Come here.”

The hero shares a worried glance with the servants next to them before slowly stepping towards him. They pause just behind his chair, their head bowed—out of fear or respect, it’s not obvious. “Sir?”

The villain holds his hand up to them expectantly. “Give me your hand.”

The hero spares a glance at the superhero. “B-But sir, our guest—”

“Your hand, [Hero].”

They hesitate, their breath uneven. Then they slowly, slowly put their hand in the supervillain’s.

The supervillain moves faster than the superhero can react. He slams their palm down against the table, his grip deathly tight on their wrist. A steak knife sits in his other hand, the tip poised over the back of the hero’s hand.

The superhero’s on his feet in an instant. The hero desperately tries to pull away, but the supervillain’s grip on them is vice-like.

“Now,” he says smoothly, “what have I said about manners?”

“[Supervillain],” the superhero tries.

“Haven’t I taught you anything?”

“I– I’m sorry.” It comes out of the hero’s mouth like a knee-jerk reaction, like it’s been said a million times before. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again—”

The supervillain twists the knife testily against their skin. Something of a strangled sob tears from the hero’s throat. “Staring is rude, [Hero].”

“I– I know, I’m so sorry—”

“[Supervillain],” the superhero snaps with all the authority he can muster. “Stop.”

“I deal with my servants how I please, [Superhero].” The supervillain’s gaze pulls up to him lazily.  “This is my domain, not yours.”

But he thankfully lets go of the hero. They pull back nervously fast, their hands cupped over each other protectively. The supervillain glances back at them as they attempt to meld back into the shadows. “Go downstairs, [Hero],” he says flatly. “We will discuss this incident later.”

The hero’s gaze snaps back to him like he just asked them to walk into hell itself. “Down– Downstairs?”

“Don’t make me repeat my instructions twice, [Hero]. You know this.”

Their eyes flit between the supervillain and the superhero for a moment. Then they dip into a short bow, and with a slightly choked “sir,” they practically bolt from the room.

A couple of the servants behind the supervillain exchange whispers and sorrowful glances.

“I must apologise,” the supervillain says with an innocent sigh. “I thought I’d trained my servants better than that. I assure you such behaviour will be dealt with.”

The superhero’s still on his feet. “Release them immediately.”

The supervillain idly swills the wine for a second. “Or what?”

“The agency will not stand for this.” The superhero clenches his fists at his sides. “I will not stand for this.”

“Well,” the supervillain drawls, “you can have them back when I’m dead.” The supervillain sets his glass on the table a little too hard. “This has been a wonderful evening, [Superhero]. Now get out.”

-

It takes 20 minutes to get back to the agency, and by then the superhero has a half-formed plan in his head and a burning cry for vengeance.

When he’s dead. So be it.

[tatachin]

Pathos - an excerpt of the chapter from my Modes of Persuasion fic

Description: Johan centric fic

A dull thud, and hairline cracks spread out under where Johan has him pinned.

"You don't know how much I hate you," Johan hisses. "how dare you hurt them so, you have no idea how much they love us-"

A startled, derisive laugh. "How dare I? Hahaha!" His forearm gripped in a bruising, destructive hold. "I could say the same for you, mongrel." There's a struggle, halfhearted in the way that's only meant to make a point. "You have no idea how much I've suffered with your image imposed on me," They're close enough that his snarl sends spittle flying onto his face. Johan holds firm, still. "not just your pathetic worthless of a god but mine! all I wanted was to serve my god in peace and yet! Talks of belonging to someone else, like all my efforts was worth nothing to him!"

Something snaps his counterpart, and his struggle proves fruitful this time as his rage doubles his strength, sending Johan stumbling back a few steps. As if he was angry that he had accidentally let loose his one vulnerability to his nemesis.

"You will never know what it feels like!" Black hair whips back from the gale caused by summoning Exelion and Johan gets a split second to brace against at a reckless swinging bash. "To forever live in someone's shadow!"

"To be abandoned since birth!" A ringing clash, and they're both at a stalemate again as their swords lock against each other. Johan grits his teeth from the exertion.

"Unwanted," His counterpart spits out with an aggrieved, desperate light in his eyes. "even by the god you devoted your entire self to."

Something resonates with Johan's deepest fears, and his back chills as if someone dug out his old ghosts to haunt him.

Golden eyes sharpen at his brief falter, and with a sweeping blow Johan's sent back a few more steps, with ridicule in those awful eyes for sympathizing, worse, showing hesitation before the enemy.

Anger vibrates the air around them as they're both just one step shy from summoning a barrage of Exelions to run each other through, self mutilation be damned.

"So what if your god preaches free will?" His counterpart utters sulkily, as their swords crashes together once more. "I never wanted anything to do with them at all."

"..."

So what, indeed. And what can he even say to him?

Fury, indignity, condemnation, but most of all, regret. For a life lived in shadows, for a life where he was weighted with undue burdens. Nothing he can say here would help either of them. They could only go around in circles, round and round, only hating and hurting each other as they continue this worthless stalemate.

His dark aligned counterpart tracks his damning hair with a vengeance, a head of spun gold that they love so much. In a moment of clarity, he reads envy, jealousy, and so much want.

A twist of his arm, a wrist flick, and Johan parries the lock away. A quick few steps away, he's retreating like he's been burned, not so much of a let go but a throwing motion. Backing away with shame coloring his visage, he collects his swords in terse silence, all without taking his eyes off his counterpart.

At his silence, "What, nothing else to say anymore?" his counterpart snarks with a hand massaging his neck where cloth chafed skin from their previous scuffle, as if it could hide where the other hand wrapped around the hidden weapon strapped to his thigh.

Johan hates how he knows. Hates how they have the same habits, hates how he sees they have the same reasoning and logical pathways, hates hates hates. He doesn't like how he ended up like this in this lifetime, just as he knows this is how he'd end up in every lifetime had it not been for lord's influence, or anyone's really, if he never had help from the mire he was born in.

tbc

[kuraikyu]

@chaosfate : ( inbox call . ) as curious as a fox could be , the little thief was driven to a delectable abode . he had laid eyes on a few trinkets && bobbles that he could get his paws on && with the capacity to carry them , they were swiftly slid into the abyss of his shadow . he slinked his way down a hall before stopping abruptly . his ears flicked && his fur bristled in the response to a small sound . quickly he retreated into his shadow && slithered under a piece of furniture .

ㅤ𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘. Hale and hearty neighborhood would take some time to make ready garland of seasonal festivities boosted by a commendatory sense of thriving. Tattles circled - about mysterious intruders, plunders, and pillage. Who might know what has happened to disturb shades formerly at rest. At that moment, one specific Curse User patiently listened to the complaint of one of the citizens entering his headquarters with a plea for help.

Foolish Monkeys are slow to be roused, unless there's a problem, but when Sorcerers are ... there is little that can stand before them. First and foremost, Suguru forbade the visitor and the locals from seeking anything by themselves. Before their adjourn, he would take one pronouncement. 'Continue ahead, please, I will catch up in a minute.' The reason? When he wanted to accompany the citizen to the area of trouble, both of them passed one of his rooms where [...] Hm..? Just now —. Suguru was startled by the preciseness of timing.

The room was certainly empty, but side glance and gut spoke otherwise. He could swear there was a movement ... and as is his custom Suguru would split up with his conversational partner in order to frustrate his pursuit therein. The sound of closing shoji echoed with his entrée. Imported furniture would not clutter traditionally minimalistic interiors.

The soothsayer stood upright, staring forward and motionlessly. Still breathed quietly, but he no longer appeared to see either his companion or the cause of movement. Eyes dared from right to left, taking in as much as no detectable mischief, alas there was but one spot for potential hideout; a table of European size where he certainly remembers used to be fresh goods and trinkets on it ...Closer and closer he approached, both hands withdrew from nightly sleeve as he knelt collected, waiting for another sound that would not come so the hand abruptly lifted a table-cloth. To his surprise, there was something of a sight. Hmm? What do we got here? A Kitsune? Looks like today he was graced by singular company; twilight scout of high arc and rustic rainbow - beautiful. Quite a shame they are always getting left off the old lists and stories for potential danger of their mention. Warm fur had such-and-such gleam inviting unpremeditated appendage to reach forward and brush handfully along sleek fix strips. For a moment, there is a genuine smile where temptation is strong to manifest. But of course, secondly, there is this invasively primordial thought about something amiss.

Again. A fox. In his headquarters; when it literally could be anywhere else …

Such an idea was discarded as selective choice is made to stay alert and cautiously observe whether it's a curse that needs to be exorcised. Not like he would succumb to a new danger so soon afterward, but one never knows.

A whiff of moment passed to accumulate common tenor in behalf of the one musing over rare eye-opener. " Well, well. I wonder ... you must be the renowned thief spirit terrorizing my local neighborhood, '' his chuckle was quiet and low, '' or perhaps you happen to be just a hungry visitor? " Can the creature talk? Communicate? Or perhaps it's just a fox ...

The little thief proved to be too wily to escape, and so he may be held in his territory for a few seconds thus he wondered — will the fox keep its peace?

[casspurrjoybell-28]

Alpha's Temptation - Chapter 12

*Warning: Adult Content*  

I'm jolted awake by the sound of a car in the early morning, feeling absolutely out of it. My eyelids feel heavy and my mouth feels like it's full of cotton.

I look at my phone and see it's around 5:30 am, not much time has passed since I fell back asleep out of exhaustion from my episode. 

I hear a car door slam and realize it's coming from the driveway so I clamber out of bed to the window, surprised at what I see.

Or who I see. It's Daemon. He's walking up to the house with a purpose, his face looks serious like something's wrong.

And his eyes... it's hard to see from the second story window where my room is but I can tell they're glowing amber, like when I first saw his wolf in the woods. The mark of an Alpha.

Curious, I leave my room to the hall and stand at the top of the stairwell, the shadows covering me. A rapt knock resounds and sure enough, an exhausted-looking Lucien goes to open the door.

I tip-toe down the stairs so I can eavesdrop on their conversation. From this spot they can't see me.

"Daemon?" Lucien asks confusedly. "Why are you here? Did you forget it's the weekend? You don't need to take Ash to school..." 

"I'm not here for that," Daemon replies.

"Then what is it?"

Silence. Why is he hesitating to answer?

"Look, I think it's better if you go," Lucien sighs, sounding frazzled and tired.

Which is understandable after what I put him through.

"Ash... he's not well right now."

"What do you mean he's not well?" Daemon immediately asks. 

"It's hard to explain. I don't really know what it's about either."

I can't see Daemon but I can imagine his jaw is clenching like it usually does when he doesn't get the answers he wants.

"What happened?"

"Daemon..."

"Tell me what happened," Daemon demands.

The aggressiveness of his voice startles me. I don't understand why he wants to know so badly. Why would he care what's happened with me? 

I feel the tension in the air between the two, feeling like I could cut it with a knife. Alphas really are something. They hate backing down.

"Stop badgering me, Daemon. You don't seem to care for the boy so why does it matter?" he snaps.

It's like Lucien took the words right out of my mouth. Because I don't get it either.Why did Daemon show up like this, just an hour after my episode?

So early in the morning too. Does he know something was up? And how does he know? Does he care?

"Hah," Daemon remarks, his tone sounding like he's disappointed. "I guess you're right."

I don't know why but those words break my heart. I already knew he didn't care but it still hurts. Why was a I deluding myself? I hate that he's having this effect on me.

Daemon leaves and I quietly retreat back up the stairs to hole up in my room again. I wrap myself in the cocoon of blankets and try to think about anything but him.

I wake up late in the afternoon, head throbbing and eyes sore. I can't bring myself to get out of bed for how hopeless and empty I feel.

But I'm too exhausted to cry anymore so I just lay there, feeling numb. I thought I'd escaped Alpha Ferix's wrath.

I foolishly hoped that I'd be able to leave the past behind as I made a new life here. Turns out things aren't that simple.

Seven years of living alone with my stepfather without my mother there to protect me won't go down the drain just like that.

The memories that haunt me are coming back at full force and I scrunch my eyes shut in an effort to block out the nightmare. 

I'm so ashamed of it. I never want to tell anyone what happened to me. I'll bottle it up and lock it away where no one will ever find it.

Because if anyone finds out? If they see the scars that litter my skin? They'll see how broken I am. How beyond fixing I am. And there's no going back from that.  

I spend the entire weekend in bed, my phone on silent. I had to search up online how to do that. I'm sure my friends have tried to contact me but I have no energy to respond.

For some reason, I found myself wishing that Daemon hadn't left this morning. That he had just stayed. But he doesn't come. And why would he? Apparently I'm nothing to him but a pest. 

I contemplate asking Lucien what he thinks about Daemon's brief appearance this morning but the effort it'll take to go downstairs and talk to him is something I don't have.

So instead I lay in my cocoon of blankets, the only semblance of comfort I have. I don't go to school that Monday. Well, it's more like I can't go.

When my scheduled alarm rings that morning I turn it off immediately. There's no will in me to get out of bed. I just want to hide away in my depression hole for as long as I can.

When I hear the door creak open a short while later I pull the covers over my head. I appreciate Lucien's concern but if he thinks I'll be able to go to school today he has another thing coming.

"Hey buddy," Lucien tests the waters, coming over to sit on the bed.

I feel the mattress dip under his weight.

"Are you not up for it today?" he asks softly.

I shake my head, which must just look like a slight movement under the covers to Lucien.

"Already tired of school?"

It's not school I'm tired of. It's life. An induced coma doesn't sound bad right now.

"I don't know," I answer, muffled by the pillows.

"Alright, well I won't force you... Just know that if you change your mind and do want to tell me what's wrong, I'm all ears. I'll be out most of the day but you can call or text me, okay? And make sure to eat, there's food in the fridge."

I want to reply so badly, I do. I want to say thank you over and over again for the kindness I'm being treated with, which I definitely don't deserve.

But my throat closes up when I try to speak and I start crying silently under the blankets. I feel a light double pat on my arm, Lucien's signal that he's leaving.

Then the door shuts and I'm left to wallow in my self-pity for as long as I want. I'm planning to do that the whole day until around noon I hear a sudden clatter somewhere in the house.

I jolt from my half-conscious slumber, heart beating erratically. Did I imagine it?But then I hear foot-steps, though muffled, deducing they're coming from the first floor of the house.

I quietly roll out of bed, frantically searching for something to defend myself with. I settle for an old baseball bat I find in the closet.

I wonder if Daemon played baseball in the past? Gripping the bat, I open my door, tip-toeing down the hallway.

I don't know why I'm not just hiding instead but I feel like I need to do something. Face my cowardice or some shit. My breathing is heavy as I make my way down the stairs, the bat slipping in my sweaty grip.

As soon as my bare foot touches the smooth polished wood of the first floor I realize what a bad idea this is. Did I really think I could fight off an intruder with my flinch and duck reflexes?

And fuck, I left my cell-phone upstairs so I can't even call 911. I take a deep breath. I'm already committed now. I hear a rustling coming from Lucien's office and the door is open.

Holding my breath, I quietly sneak over. If I can catch the person as they're walking out of the door, they won't see it coming. At least that makes sense in my tired brain.

I stand out there for a while, holding the bat to my chest as I listen to them rifling through the drawers of Lucien's desk and cabinet. I'm so nervous, my breath coming out in pants as the adrenaline makes me dizzy.

So nervous, in fact, that I don't hear the person approaching the doorway until it's too late. A tall figure emerges and I scream, nearly dropping the bat before swinging it at the person weakly.

"What the actual fuck..." someone catches the bat in his hands with ease, pulling it from my grip so that it falls uselessly to the floor.

Only then do I realize it's Daemon. I gasp, putting my hands over my mouth as I come to terms with my stupid mistake.

"Oh my God..." I trail off.

"Why the hell are you trying to take me out with a baseball bat?" Daemon asks confoundedly. 

"Shoot, I'm so sorry," I mumble tiredly, a hand rubbing at my temple. "I know it's dumb but I thought someone broke in or something."

I look up at him only for my vision to blur, my head going woozy as my knees buckle. I stumble and before I know it Daemon's rushing forward and grabbing me.

I find myself in his warm arms, the familiar embrace reminding me of how he carried me when he found me in the woods. I try to catch my breath and slump against him, my small hands gripping his biceps as I try to right myself.

As much as I want to stay in these arms where I feel safe, I know it can't last.

"Are you sick, Omega? I thought you were at school," Daemon says, almost sounding worried but maybe he's just annoyed with me.

Embarrassed, I pull back from him, standing up by myself. The loss of contact sends disappointment flooding through me. Daemon looks down at me, taking in my appearance which I know must be horrid.

I looked in the mirror earlier and my face was all pale and sickly, my opal-green eyes dull, with dark circles under both of them. I don't want Daemon to see.

"I'm fine," I look down, avoiding his gaze like I often do.

But then I feel his hand on my chin, lifting it to face up at him.

"Look at me when you speak to me," he orders but it's not harsh sounding, it's gentle and it makes my eyes widen.

I feel my face heat as I'm forced to hold eye-contact with him and at such close proximity too.

"And you're not fine," he says as he examines my face. "Why are you telling me you're fine?"

"I'm just tired. I'm really okay."

Daemon frowns and it's obvious he doesn't believe me.

"Well that's bullshit. You've been crying, Omega. I can tell."

I scowl a bit, not wanting to answer.

"Why are you here?" I try to change the subject.

"Getting some documents for Lucien," Daemon slightly shifts the papers in his hand. "Now why are you here? Ditching class again?"

I give him an annoyed look that's almost a glare, walking off to the living room.

"No. That turned out to be the worst decision, like, ever."

"Karma's a bitch, huh?" he follows after me as I sink into the couch.

I don't know why he's trying to talk to me about this.

"Yeah, you could say that," I reply, starting to sniffle. "And now I've failed my biology test."

Shit. The one thing I did not want to do was cry in front of Daemon. I don't want his pity and I don't want him to see how pathetic I am so I try to stop it but my lip just quivers as a tear slips down my cheek.

I look to Daemon and he looks surprised, another emotion simmering below the surface. But I can't tell what it is.

"Tests are made to be failed, Omega," he offers which is crazy because I can't believe he's trying to comfort me.

Or is it that, even?

Maybe he's just making fun of me.

I look at him sadly, wiping my eyes.

"No. You wouldn't understand," I shake my head, covering my face in shame.

"Then why won't you..." Daemon starts and I look at him expectantly but he doesn't go on.

What was he going to say?

"I'm gonna go," I stand up, walking back towards the stairwell. "I don't want to be seen like this."

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (10)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.9k warnings: smut (18+), angsty angst, this time I dont leave you with a cliff hanger 😉 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“Come on, Bucky! I know you’re in there!” 

You hit your fist on the door again. Perhaps you would have been more mindful of the the hour, but you’d heard glass shattering as you raced up the stairway just moments ago. You’d heard him shouting himself hoarse and heavy footsteps as he paced inside his apartment. You’d heard the cracks in his voice – the consumption of grief and fury and shame swallowing him whole.  

One of Bucky’s neighbors had rung Sam the first time Bucky’s screams could be heard through the thin apartment walls. It was the fifth time in as many nights and Sam promised Bucky would get it under control before they went to the landlord with noise complaints. He made no such promises that he would be the one to do it. 

An elderly woman in a nightgown peeped her head out into the hallway, scowling at you as you continued pounding on the door. Her beady eyes narrowed and you only spared her a moment’s glance before you returned to the door. 

“I’ll wake up the whole building! I swear to—” 

The door was pulled from under your fist. In its frame, stood a ghostly version of the man you knew. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. His hair was disheveled, blood dripped from a cut in his palm. Behind him, furniture was turned on its side, glass on the floor, magazines and unopened mail littering every surface. He'd torn his place apart.  

“What are you doing here?” 

You swallowed, forcing your voice stronger than you felt. “Sam called me.” 

Bucky’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “Of course, he did.”  

He paused only for a moment before he turned his back to you and walked inside the apartment. The door was left open in his wake and you took it as permission to enter. 

Cautiously, you took your first steps into his apartment. You tried to ignore the dust lining the curtains and the fleeting thought wondering when the last time he’d allowed the sun to touch his skin. The latch clicked behind you and you winced at the intrusion to the silence.  

Bucky meanwhile was staring out into the mess of his living room. His gaze rested on the couch turned on its side, then to the box of trinkets spilled on the floor by the mantel, then the broken glass by the window. His shoulders sagged; his expression unreadable. Slowly, he knelt down to the edge of the couch to flip it back on its legs.  

You watched him carefully, not uttering a word or daring to move closer until he finished. Once the couch was right side up again, he exhaled a tired breath and leaned against the edge. Exhaustion flickering through his eyes, though you suspected it had little to do with the exertion of moving furniture.  

As Bucky moved to throw the cushions back to the frame, you realized suddenly how he was dressed. Plaid blue pajama pants hung low on his waist. Bare feet prodding over hardwood floors too close to where broken shards of glass waited. His chest was exposed; skin glazed in the dim glow of moonlight as it peered through the small slit between the curtains.  

You could see his shoulder blades move along his back as he tensed. The lines of his spine and the dips along his hipbones. When he turned to face you again, your eyes were drawn to his shoulder and the frayed mess of scar tissue and burns. It was mesmerizing, the intricate patterns and the markings on his skin. Pink and red and faded with time. You wondered if it still hurt, if he could feel the nerve endings there or— 

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky’s. He was watching you, barely taking a breath. So vulnerable as he stood in front of you and he had no time to prepare for it. He probably didn’t realize how exposed he was until he noticed you staring. You’d imposed on his home, on his space. He couldn’t have known he’d be confronted with this tonight. 

All the effort it took for him to simply remove his jacket and now he was left standing before you without a single layer to protect him.  

You could see the doubt swimming behind his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to pretend like this connection between you was something he could easily push away, like he could let go of it without much of a second thought or a single word in his own defense, you could tell he was ripping himself apart at the seams, wondering whether you found him as repulsive as he saw himself to be. 

He shook his head, his features hardening over again. He gripped at the side of the couch until his knuckles turned white.  

“You should go home,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was thick as gravel. “Sam shouldn’t have bothered you.” 

“Shouldn’t have—?” You scoffed, stunned. “Bucky, look at this place!” 

“I’m fine,” he replied flatly and you almost laughed if it weren’t for the deadpanned look upon his face.  

“You’re clearly not fine!” You dared to take a step closer, aching to remind him of the lightness he carried weeks earlier, only for him to retreat. He rejected the contact on instinct – a flinch throughout his whole body. Your heart clenched as if a hand had slipped in past your ribs and squeezed until it burst.  

Your breath was tight in your lungs as you tried again, a little softer this time, “you’re not fine, Bucky. You’ve kept yourself held up – alone – in this apartment for days on end. You’re pushing away the people who care about you. You’re not sleeping. You... You look like you’ve been through hell.” 

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight, you wondered if it might shatter. His gaze was unfocused, staring down at the floor by your feet.  

“You don’t have to put yourself thought this,” you eased, though the tension would not fade from his muscles. They remained locked as stone. You inched forward, a hand extending to him, an anchor to ground him. “Bucky, please... let me help you.” 

Something snapped – as sudden as a rubber band pulled taunt until its breaking point – and Bucky’s cold eyes met yours.  

"There is NO helping me!” he roared, startling you enough to flinched back a few paces, your hand curling back against your chest protectively. He curled his shaking hand to a fist. “I can't escape this shit! Even when I thought I could—when things were finally bearable again and I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning and I actually wanted to live through the fucking day— it all came back anyway! One word and I’m right back to where I started! I’m a fucking nightmare to be around! Don’t you get that?!” 

His breaths were coming in ragged, too quick. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red. He hit his knuckles against the edge of the couch, on the wooden frame under the spine. Bucky barely took in a full breath.

“I can’t keep my shit together and I’m -- I’m only going to hurt you, okay? You shouldn’t want anything to do with this. I—I mean, look around you!” He kicked at the glass near his exposed feet, angry tears burning on his cheeks. “This is what my life looks like! Is this—is this what you want for yourself? You really want to sign up for this? This—this fucking endless parade of night terrors and panic attacks and anxiety? Huh?” 

He was brimming with pain. It was spilling over the surface and coating the floor. You were drowning in it and all you wanted to do was cross the room to him, to hold him, to soothe even an ounce of that suffering away because it would consume him whole if he let it.  

Bucky’s right hand was shaking so badly, tremors wouldn’t cease even as he clenched his fist. His body betrayed the stone he etched into his features. It was crumbling under the weight.  

“You really want to throw away your life for that? For me?” he spat as if the very idea itself carried venom in its implication, as if it were nothing more than a fool’s errand to spend a lifetime by his side, as if choosing him would be choosing to tie a noose around your neck.  

You’d never seen the evidence of his self-loathing before—not in full view and smothering the man you adored. He was expecting you to recoil, to run, to fight and argue and ultimately accept that you could never love a man so broken. It was a reaction he could wait a century for and still never find even a glimpse of hesitancy on your features.  

You steadied your breathing. Focused on the heart of the man standing in front of you, determined to push past the destructive fog he’d surrounded himself in. You took a step toward him, and this time, he did not run.  

“You’re not going to scare me away, Bucky.” 

Shame quickly spread through his body, replacing the threads of anger with something much crueler. His eyes fell to the floor, his chest rising unsteady and he stumbled back a few paces to give you space from the rage he wasn’t able to control. He looked about a decade younger as his features softened again, cowering back into the shadows. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you eased, daring another step. 

Bucky shook his head, reflective lines along his cheeks. His lower lip was chewed raw.  

“You don’t deserve this mess. You should—You should be with someone whole. Someone who can give you a better life than I can.” He could barely choke out the words.

“I don’t want someone else.” You took another step closer, determined to close the space between you. “I want you.” 

The tips of your fingers brushed against Bucky’s hand and a shiver cast up his spine. His eyes were transfixed on your touch as you slowly encased his hand in your own, easing the tension through his body and crumbling the stones in his chest with a gentle slide of your thumb against his palm. He started to sink against it, his whole body caving in to the very thing he’d been keeping at an arm’s length. He was suffering withdrawal.  

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Bucky whimpered, tears slipping past his eyes as he shut them tight, as if he could cast away his demons if he were blind to their shadows over his shoulder.  

You tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down to the couch. He followed you easily, his body moving of your accord as if he were made of clay. When you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, you felt the slight tremble along his spine, the shakiness in his bones. His head laid against your heartbeat, his right arm snaking around your waist in fear of letting go.   

“I don’t need to know what happened. I don’t need the details,” you sighed against his ear. “I know you. I know you’re a good man, Bucky.” 

Bucky was quiet for a minute. The silence hung thick in the air. 

“What if I’m not?” 

You tried to ignore the twist in your chest. “Oh honey, please don’t say that.” 

“I lost eight people, Y/n,” he muttered out, holding onto you a little tighter. You could feel his heart pounding as you raked your fingers through his hair, hoping to ease him if only a little. “Eight of my unit. My friends. If I... If I had said something sooner... We were sitting ducks and... and...” 

It was impossible to draw the pieces together. You couldn’t see the vivid image he held in his mind, but the details of that day weren’t necessary. He trusted you enough to outline the frame, to provide glimpses into the worst day of his life, even if they were messy and blurred. His body shook as he spoke, like maybe it was the first time he was saying the words aloud.  

You ran your fingers along his spine, drawing patterns along his shoulder blades. He shivered. 

The gentle glow of the moonlight caught the reflective edge of something on the floor. A medal. A Bronze Star. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, remembering what Natasha had told you about its merit for exceptional bravery.  

“Were there any survivors?” 

Bucky held his breath and slowly he nodded. “He was... He was just a kid when it happened. Peter. I think... I think if it wasn’t for him, I would have died out there. I would have given up. Woulda been easy enough. My arm would have bled out pretty quick and the sky... the sky was so beautiful that day. I don’t know why I remember that. Not a cloud for miles. It would have been a nice last thing to see, you know? I would have been okay with that. But Peter... Peter was so young and I... I wanted to bring him home.” 

Tears were openly streaming down your face and you were thankful Bucky couldn’t see them as he laid against your chest. You tried to stifle the sob as it broke through. You kissed at his hairline again, holding him as tight as you could manage. 

“You saved his life,” you stressed, hoping he might be able to hear it.  

Bucky swallowed, tears brushing against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. “I lost eight others.” 

“Yes, you did.” There was no disputing that. Eight lives had been lost and he was grieving his friends, his team, blaming himself for each life he didn’t save. His body tensed and you were mindful to draw pressured lines along his back to ease the rigidity there.  

“You did everything you could, honey.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No, I could have... I—I should have...” 

“Some things are just outside of your control.” 

“But I—” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Bucky froze, the recognition present in his body as he slowly lifted his head from your chest. “That’s....” He blinked a few times. “That’s what Sam always said. Those exact words.” 

You smiled, brushing the hair from his eyes. You wiped your thumb along his cheekbone, drawing away the tracks of tears on his face. “Sam’s a smart guy.” 

Bucky searched your eyes and you could tell he was wondering how you’d come to know Sam’s mantras, how they’d become words you often repeated to yourself in your darkest moments, but he couldn’t quite find a way to ask. He pulled himself from your lap and propped himself up beside you, your hands intertwined. He squeezed it lightly and an aching smile pulled at your lips.  

"Sam used to have to write it on paper for me,” you admitted at the bittersweet memory. “I couldn’t say it to myself and he figured if I could read it in his writing, maybe I’d believe it if it were coming from him. After a while I started to say them out loud and hearing it my own voice... I don’t know. Sam kind of tricked me into healing, I guess.” 

You laughed under your breath and you felt Bucky ease slightly beside you. He squeezed your hand again, a silent reminder that he was there. You focused on the feel of his grip, the callouses on his palms and the warmth of his skin. Real and tangible. Your Bucky.  

“Sometimes I think Sam’s the only reason I survived after I lost Riley.” 

A slight pinch formed at Bucky’s brows, his eyes narrowing—a subtle sort of curiosity, though he waited patiently for you to continue. The silence didn’t seem to frighten him as much as he focused on you, his eyes darted to your lip as you dug in your teeth.  

You hadn’t let yourself be vulnerable next to Bucky before, afraid to take away from his own suffering in favor of your own. But you had known pain of a different kind. 

You knew what it was to crave comfort, to silently beg to be held. You knew how it felt to be rejected by a man too shattered to offer any piece of himself away without breaking apart entirely.  

The way Bucky was watching you, even through the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion pulling him in... it settled the twists of nerves in your stomach. His thumb traced at the edges of your palms, gentle sweeps to ease the tension away. His back straightened, a determination returning to his features, a sense of belonging – of purpose – in his comfort of you.  

“He was a pararescue in the Air Force,” you continued after a moment and a flash of realization crossed over Bucky’s features. You pressed out a sad sort of smile as you said, “you remind me of him a little.” 

You thought of the t-shirt you’d lent Bucky the evening you’d gotten caught in the storm together, how it clung to his chest. Bucky’s shoulders where broader than Riley’s had been. It was slightly bigger on your frame the next night you wore it. The logo had faded with constant washing, the soft green of the fabric muted to a grey. You’d worn it to sleep nearly every night for weeks after Riley left for his final tour, longer after he’d been killed.  

It was the most cherished thing you owned. Lending it to Bucky that night had taken a strength you hadn’t allowed for yourself in years. It brought back memories you’d left untouched and an ache in your chest you’d forgotten. But somewhere, under it all, it had released you. 

Riley would have liked Bucky, you thought, might have considered him a friend. You hoped he wouldn’t mind being the bridge that allowed you to move onto a new sense of peace, a new comfort. Even in Riley’s darkest moments, he only ever wanted you to be happy. You desperately hoped he meant that.  

“I loved him so much,” you told Bucky, your mouth feeling suddenly dry at the admission, “but the war had hurt him beyond the scars on his body. Most nights, he woke up screaming. I tried... I tried to comfort him, to ground him back to what was real, but Riley was always so stubborn. He insisted he was fine, as if I didn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes or that he started drinking coffee in the evening before bed. He never told me what happened. I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me, that he was just doing what he could to hold himself together, but... the truth was, I lost Riley long before the officers showed up at his parents’ house.” 

Bucky nodded, watching you intently, though he didn’t say a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you kept your stare ahead, focusing on the imperfections laced into the brick of the fireplace across the room. You studied the curve of the cement, the nicks in the mantel, the divots of the stone. It was the first time you’d uttered Riley’s name in years. 

“I know you think I can’t handle this stuff, that it’s too much for me, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been around someone with nightmares, Bucky, or panic attacks,” you said, memories flashing over Riley sinking to the floor with his hands pressed to his ears, tears streaming down his face, images of him turning his back on you and disappearing for days on end. You had hoped he’d open up in enough time, but he never did. He couldn’t, he’d said, or it would consume him whole. Even years later, you still wondered whether it was under the weight of his pain that he suffocated, not in the prospect of its release.  

“Riley struggled after his first tour,” you continued, a lump burning in your throat. “He... He came back different. He couldn’t adjust to civilian life. I could tell from the second he got home that he was itching to go back. Despite all the pain he endured, all the nightmares and the guilt, all he wanted to do was go back.” 

You glanced over at Bucky to find his jaw clenched in understanding. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling, for soldiers who waited so tirelessly to be reunited with family and friends to feel isolated and insignificant when they returned home, to want to return to the one place they felt like they belonged.  

“I tried to stop him,” you continued, wiping your eyes as unshed tears started to blur your vision. “I begged him to stay. He was out of his contract. He didn’t need to go back but...” You sighed. Bucky’s hand gripped yours and you drew on the ounce of strength he was offering. “The worst part was that he was better when he was over there. He was smiling again and laughing and making jokes like he used to. He was promising things for our future I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider before then. Being over there... it offered him something I never could and I was... I was glad for that. I was thankful he’d gone. I was... relieved. I’d missed him so much and I was just happy he was himself again, even if he was a world away, even if it broke my heart. Seeing him happy again... it was enough.” 

You brushed at your eyes, the calloused touch of Bucky’s palm sliding along your jaw to gently wipe the wet from your cheek. His breathing was even again, the shakiness in his hands subsided. He waited for you to gather your thoughts again, not uttering a word in favor of the crickets chirping outside the window – unparalleled kindness in his patience.  

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, urging yourself to continue. Your eyes met Bucky’s, finding comfort in the warm shades of blue and the encouraging glimpse of a smile that barely rose at the edges of his mouth.  

“When Riley died, I blamed myself for a long time,” you said. “I told myself I could have stopped him from going back. I could have done more to convince him to stay, to get him the help he needed. I could have fought harder for him—for... for us. But Riley was his own person. He made his own choices and I couldn’t have done a damn thing to stand in his way. Sam helped convince me of that.” 

Bucky’s face slacked. “That’s why you started volunteering at the VA.” 

You nodded. “Sam and Riley were partners. They had some sort of pact to take care of the other’s family if something happened. Sam held up his side of the bargain whether I liked it or not. He dragged me to the open house that year and I haven’t left since. I do it for Riley, but... I don’t know... I think I do it for myself, too.” 

You exhaled a heavy breath, turning away from the fireplace to face Bucky. His eyes weren’t as red as they had been, a frown no longer etched into his features. His gaze full, though heavy, and he watched you as if you carried the entire world in the palm of your hands.  

“So, you have to understand... I can’t lose you to this war, too,” you choked out, squeezing at his hand to feel the firmness of it, to remind yourself that he was real and sitting right beside you and not an ocean away. “I won’t survive losing you, Bucky. I need you, okay? Please.” 

He looked as though he was about to argue, but he quickly held his tongue as he watched the tears slip down over your cheeks. Reflective in the dim light from the window.  

You took in a long breath, straightening your spine as you met his eye, your voice stronger than it had been since you started. “Not everyone comes home, but you did. You survived and you wandered into my life and somehow, you made me believe in love again. Even on your worst days, just being near you is the best part of mine.” 

Bucky’s lips parted, a semblance of shock flashing over his eyes. You smiled at him through your tears, a hand sliding along the side of his cheek. He sighed against the touch of it, sinking into your embrace as if hadn’t ever expected to be held like that again. Your sweet Bucky, still so surprised that you could adore him as much as you did.  

“So, I will take your nightmares and your panic attacks,” you told him, smiling through the trembling in your lips. “I’ll take your bad days and share the weight you carry on your shoulders. I’ll take every ounce of shame and self-loathing you have until the day comes you can hardly feel it at all. I’ll take the empty side streets with you and we’ll drive so far out into the country side we’ll never hear a firework again.” 

Bucky chuckled at that, a smile pressing up along his cheek until you felt it under your palm.  

“I will take anything you throw at me,” you sighed, your thumb brushing over his lips, “as long as you’re mine. As long as I’m yours. That’s all I want, Bucky. It’s all I ask. Just you.” 

Bucky stared at you, a strange mixture of awe and disbelief on his features. You could see the hope burning behind his eyes, how badly he wanted to believe you, but doubt crept in and sunk its talons into his spine.  

His smile sank. “You’ve... you’ve already been through so much. I don’t know if I’m worth all that.” 

“You are.” You slid both hands along his cheeks, holding his gaze, until you leaned in closer, inch by inch, and pressed your lips to his forehead. Slow, lingering, you kissed his temples, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his jawline, pausing only when you found yourself a breath away from his lips.  

“You are, Bucky,” you said again, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks and catching a tear in its path. He bowed his head, a slight trembling in his jawline. It took everything you had not to collapse into him.  

“Honey, I promise you, it won’t always feel like this and I’ll convince you every day that you are enough, if you need me to,” you told him, your voice shaking as you held back tears. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.” 

You leaned forward to kiss the crown of his head and his whole body seemed to sink in response, lightening, as if he’d let go of a boulder strapped upon his shoulders. His muscles softened, the tension slipping from his spine, until slowly, he began to lift his head, hair parting away from his eyes. Though they were strained and red, a crystalized ocean current stared back at you.  

You could feel the ease in his body taking over, a realization and a determination present in his stare, in his body.  

His lips parted, a steady breath in. “I love you.” 

*** 

It was the easiest thing he’d ever said; slipped from his lips as if the words had simply tumbled out on their own. Lost in how tenderly you touched him, how your hands never once left his body even as he held himself firm as stone, how you entrusted him with the most painful parts of yourself, how you gently coaxed him away from the shadows threatening to drag him back into a darkness he’d never recover from – he’d never been so certain of anything in his life.  

“I love you,” he said again, just wanting to hear it one more time. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into a smile. It ached from disuse, but it was a pleasant feeling. A kind one.  

He slipped his hand to rest on yours as it laid against his face and gently pulled it back just enough to kiss at your palm. It wasn’t often he found you at a loss for words, but it he didn’t mind the silence, not like he did before. He could still hear the slight hitch of surprise in your breath, the nervous laughter carrying in your exhale. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it were even possible to love you more than he did in that moment.  

“Really?”  

God, you were so beautiful when you looked at him like that. Starry eyed and so full of hope.  

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.” 

You kissed him then, full on his mouth, arms thrown around his neck, and he had to stifle a laugh against your lips. He could feel the smile growing against him, laughing in between every kiss as the tears dried on your cheeks.  

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you beamed, drawing him in to kiss him again. 

He shouldn’t be surprised after all you’d said to him tonight, but it still fluttered in his chest, still caused butterflies to swarm in his stomach, still cast a blinding light deep into his heart that pushed out the remaining darkness lingering behind. His arm snaked around your back, holding you as tight against him as he could manage. He was breathless by the time you pulled away.  

“Will you stay?” he asked, suddenly feeling nervous as his eyes flickered over to the bedroom door. “I know it’s a mess out here, but—” 

Your lips were on his again and he swore he’d never talk again as long as you kept kissing him like that. Slowly, you began to stand from the couch, tugging him along with you. He pulled away from your lips just long enough to navigate his way to the bedroom, stepping over broken glass and the remnants of his nightmare on the living room floor.  

His bedroom was untouched, at least. The sheets were thrown haphazardly off the bed, but other than that, it was pristine in comparison to the damage he’d done out there. A shame tried to work its way deep into his chest, but he felt your hand slip into his, carefully drawing him close to the bed, and it released him to your care.  

His back bounced against the mattress in tune with the sweet sound of your laughter as you crawled over him. Thighs caging his hips, you straddled his waist and he looked up at you, certain he’d find a glimmering shine of a halo behind your head. The moonlight touched over your shoulders as you leaned down against him, kissing his lips. 

He’d missed you so much. Those two weeks left him in a hole he couldn’t possibly dig himself out of on his own. He was scraping at the bottom, nails filled with dirt, digging himself deeper and deeper until he could no longer see the sunlight as it touched over the surface. It wasn’t until you jumped down into the pit with him that he noticed there were notches in a wall once perfectly smooth, allowing him to crawl his way back up to the top.  

You leaned back a little, breathless, as your hands slid along his chest. It was the first time he’d been so exposed in front of you, the scars and burns on full display, and he was surprised that there was no hesitancy in your touch, no reluctance as you brushed your fingertips over the corners of the damage to his skin. But you paused, eyes flickering to him.  

“Can I?” 

Bucky sighed, his heart aching. You knew how difficult it was for him, for you to see this part of him. He hadn't even taken off his jacket once in the first few weeks of knowing you. But now, he nodded eagerly, wanting to feel the tenderness with which you handled him upon the broken remains of his left side.  

Your hands slid up over his shoulder, brushing along the bumps and ridges in his skin. Hardened tissue and raised edges. The way you touched him, like he was something beautiful and adored, made his heart swell. It wasn’t until you leaned down to press a feathered kiss to his shoulder, just over the burn marks and the glimpse of what he’d lost, that he choked back tears.  

“Is it too much?” you asked, noticing the trembling in his lower lip, but he quickly shook his head. 

“It’s perfect,” he replied breathily, drawing you back to his lips. “You’re perfect. I don’t deserve—” 

“Hush,” you warned, kissing him to cut him off, “don’t talk about the man I love like that. You deserve every ounce of love I can give you, you hear me?” 

He stared at you for a moment, studying the sincerity on your features until the gravity of what you said sank in, and slowly, he nodded. It would take time to believe that, but he hoped the more you said it, the easier it would come. He’d believe just about anything if it came from your voice.  

“Let me show you.” 

Bucky stilled; his throat suddenly dry.

“Let me show you, Bucky,” you asked again, your lips against his neck. He shivered. You sucked at his skin, drawing a map along his collarbone. You tongue licked at the indent by his neck. “Please.” 

When you met his eyes again, Bucky wondered if maybe you saw him with the same wonder and enchantment with which he saw you. It only took the slight tilt of a nod before you crossed your arms over your waist and slowly pulled your shirt up over your head. Your bra came next and Bucky shifted uncomfortably, realizing you were still straddling him, his hardening length prominent against your thigh. 

He stared up at you, studying over the curves of your breasts, the dips in your hips, untouched and exposed – so incredibly beautiful.  

He stopped himself as the thought entered his mind, the wondering whether he deserved such beauty in his life, wondering how he’d managed to trick the cruel twist of karma to allow him to love a woman like this – to love you like this. 

He cast away the doubt, forcing it back to the shadows where it belonged. It was easier to do that when you smiled at him like that, like he was truly worth something.  

You laid down against his chest as his hand slid up along your spine, feeling for the slight dip in your back and the goosebumps following in his wake. You shivered under his touch and for the first time, Bucky remembered what it felt like to be wanted.  

He couldn’t stop kissing you, even as your hands slipped to his waistband. It was like you breathed new life back into him; reviving him with every touch.  

He helped you push down the band of his pants until you could easily drag it down his legs and drop it to the floor by his bed. It had been a long time since he was so vulnerable in front of a woman, but he didn’t mind when you looked at him the way you did. There was no ounce of judgement in your eyes, no cautious glance to his shoulder and the absence there. There was only love.  

You slipped the remaining clothes from your body and Bucky held his breath as you climbed over him again, straddling his waist, bare. 

Bucky was trembling as he reached for the drawer at his bedside. Blindly digging around for a box in the back of the drawer, he felt for the edge of foil wrapping. He brought it to his teeth, careful to rip the packaging, though as he held it in one hand, he let out a heavy sigh.  

“Would you...?” he asked, a blush creeping up into his cheeks.  

He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed, given that you were both naked, but this was one of those things he couldn’t do for himself. It would have felt emasculating if it weren’t for how eagerly you nodded and how good it felt as you placed the condom on his tip and slowly rolled it down his base. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillow at the feeling, wondering how he was going to survive this. 

“You alright there, honey?” you called, giggling under your breath and, damn, if it wasn’t the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.  

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, his hand sliding up along your waist, thumb brushing over your breast. He tried to catch the whimper as it left his lips to no avail.  

You smirked. “I think we’ve waited long enough. Don’t you think?”  

You sank down on him and he choked back a moan, embarrassingly loud, but it only seemed to spur you on as you rolled your hips, giving him little time to adjust. You were so tight, squeezing around him, and – holy shit – when you dragged yourself against him, using him as you sought out the angle you were looking for, he’d never felt anything like it. 

He held his breath, focusing on the ceiling as he listened to the sweet sounds you made as your hands curled against his chest, hair falling down into your face. He knew he wouldn’t last as long as he wanted— hell, he would have stayed in you like this for hours if he could have – and it was taking near everything he had to hold out long enough for you to finish.  

Thankfully, you were just as riled up as he was – high on missing him, aching in the distance – and Bucky gasped as he felt your walls clench around him with the rushed circles between your legs. You picked up in pace and Bucky found himself meeting you half way, thrusting up into you as he braced himself on the headboard.  

“Oh God – Bucky,” you whimpered, your chest falling down to his, unable to hold yourself up. He kissed your neck, his hand sliding from around the wooden of the baseboard to grip your hips.  

If he could, he would have had a hand on your breast, teasing at the nipple, the other sliding down to the space between your bodies, rubbing circles on the nerves that left you so breathless you could hardly hold yourself up. But he was learning again, getting used to his body and his limits, and all he could focus on was holding you, guiding your hips, giving him leverage to fill you whole.  

Judging from the sounds you were making, your body molding like puddy against him, you didn’t mind at all. 

“I’m close,” you gasped, breath hot against his neck. “Ah, God, Bucky... I’m-- I’m--” 

He could feel it before the words left your lips, the clench in your walls, the spasms in your muscles that left you weak against him, overstimulated as you pulled your hand away from your clit. Your cries gave him the permission he needed to let go, only a few more thrusts was all it took, and he shuttered as he came.  

Breathless, hardly able to control the laugh as it bubbled in his chest, Bucky could hardly believe that he started this night in the darkest place he’d been in months, only to end up lying here with you, so full of light and love he could hardly stand it.  

He didn’t let you go at first, just wanting to hold you a little longer. He felt the sweet touch of your lips as they trailed along his neck, smile brimming against his ear. Then slowly, you rolled off of him, gently removing the condom and tossing it to the bin. A shiver slipped up his spine at the touch.  

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Bucky confessed as you laid against his chest, curling up to his side. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Don’t let me do that again, okay? I can’t stand to go another day without you.” 

You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing along the lines on his shoulder, touching over old scars and burns. You traced them as if they were simply lines on his body, just another piece of him worth loving, worth memorizing. He wondered if the next time he saw them in the mirror, he might remember this moment and see them for something more than the evidence of his loss that day. Maybe, he might see them the way you did – as evidence of his survival.  

“I love you,” you sighed and Bucky felt his heart swell; it grew and expanded so wide inside his chest, he wondered if his bones might bend to make room as it split him so lovely at the seams.  

“I love you, too.” He curled his arm tighter around your shoulders, drawing you close to his side. Over your shoulder, a cast of moonlight seeped in through the windows, touching over your skin, illuminating the room in a gentle glow. He closed his eyes as sleep drew him near, comforted by the patterns you drew against his shoulder. 

When he fell asleep, he fell willingly – protected in your embrace, safe, from the nightmares laying in wake.

[graaythekwami]

The Little Things - ML One-Shot

(Spoilers for the season 4 episode Hack-San)

-------

"Out for a solo patrol, Chat Noir?"

Chat Noir jumped slightly, not quite use to hearing an unfamiliar voice up here on the rooftops, and turned. The figure was standing on a chimney a ways from him, the reds of her costume matching the setting sun.

"Scarabella?" Chat Noir said, looking at the temporary Ladybug heroine he had met the other day. His surprise quickly gave way to worry, eyes widening slightly. "Did something happen to Ladybug? Is there an akuma out right now? Is–"

Scarabella held up her hands, but didn't come closer. "No no no, everything is okay– I just wanted to talk to you, that's all, and Ladybug said you often did some patrols in the evening..."

He gave a tight smile, shoulders relaxing slightly. "Not really a patrol, not like what me and M'Lady do when we patrol. It's just... to get some fresh air, I suppose."

He was slightly startled when he turned and found Scarabella walking towards him, as he hadn't heard her steps. She had some papers in her hands, and an uncertain smile on her face. She paused a little ways away from him.

"Is it okay if we talk for a bit?" Scarabella asked. "I don't have a lot of time, and then I can leave you to your... 'patrol'."

"What's up?" Chat Noir asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. His feelings on Scarabella were... mixed. She was an ally and she had spirit, but he would be lying if he said there was no bitterness when he thought about her. About what she knew and why she was there.

"I... I wanted to just show you this," Scarabella said, holding up the papers in her hand, before carefully setting it down on the roof near him, before retreating back slightly. "I had to edit out a few 'tips' for identity reasons, and Ladybug doesn't know I'm showing this to you, but considering my sudden appearance I figured maybe it would help if you saw it."

Chat glanced at the papers, then back at the spare heroine. "I don't want to go behind Ladybug's back."

Scarabella blinked, then let out a small laugh. "Oh, no, no, it's not like it's something I can't show you. It's just the list of tips she gave me of how to be Ladybug while she was gone."

"Okay?"

Scarabella smiled. "Read them, would you? Please?"

Chat Noir looked at the papers, before carefully picking them up and unfolding them. Sure enough he found a list of 'tips', each one carefully numbered off. His eyes scanned down the list, noting a few numbers were missing, which must have been the editing she had been referring to.

Chat Noir's eyes jumped back up to the top, and began reading. He could tell right away that it was indeed written by his Lady, and he could almost hear her voice as he read.

Tip 1 - Keep the earrings in at all times, they are easy to misplace. DO NOT TAKE THEM OFF.

Tip 2 - Always have sweets for Tikki on hand.

Tip 3 - Not just for recharging if an akuma appears, make sure you have something she can snack on if she's hungry.

Tip 4 - No. Seriously. Holders know no fury like a kwami starved.

Chat Noir snickered, knowing fully well what she meant. His interactions with Tikki had been limited, and she had been a very sweet kwami. Ladybug told pretty much the same story... except for the times she didn't have cookies or macarons on hand for her kwami. It turned out the little Ladybug kwami was just as passionate about her sweets as Plagg was with his cheese.

Tip 11 - Tell Chat Noir what's going on right away if an akuma shows up. Since I wasn't able to talk my way into staying in Paris like I thought I didn't get time to tell him I was leaving.

Tip 12 - If you see Chat Noir patrolling at night don't worry, it doesn't mean there's an akuma or somewhere you need to take my place. My Kitty is a free spirit and Paris is our city.

Tip 13 - Leave out croissants for him if he happens to come by where you are on patrol.

Tip 14 - The chocolate covered ones are his favorite. Chat loves anything with passion fruit too.

Tip 15 - Chat Noir likes any kind of sweets, actually, but try to get him his favorites if you can.

There was a small smile on his face as he read, eyes carefully looking over each word, warmth in his heart. The tips soon drifted back towards things regarding the Miraculous, a good dozen involving Lucky Charms and explaining how the yoyo worked.

Tip 25 - Lucky Charms might be bigger than you think! Be prepared to leapt out of the way in case a piano comes crashing down instead of a pencil.

Tip 26 - Don't ask Tikki to explain Lucky Charms. She'll be vague and she'll do it on purpose.

Tip 27 - Don't try to force a Lucky Charm to work. It's just kind of instinctual? I don't know how to describe it.

Tip 28 - Ask Chat Noir for help if the Lucky Charm is too confusing. He's been Misterbug before and has helped me defeat villains with countless Lucky Charms.

Tip 29 - Just ask Chat Noir if you have any questions, he's a professional.

Tip 30 - Don't ask him so many questions though that you stress him out! Akuma fights are hard enough and with him being the most experienced he'll have enough to worry about without a bunch of questions.

Tip 31 - Just follow Kitty's lead, he knows what to do.

Tip 32 - Chat Noir has good instincts and enhanced senses, listen to him.

Tip 33 - When Chat Noir makes a joke try to laugh, even if you think it's not funny. It makes him happy. :)

"My jokes are always funny, My Lady!" Chat Noir exclaimed in protest, though there was a smile on his face.

Tip 34 - Make sure Chat Noir is happy.

Tip 35 - Don't make fun of his purring, he's self conscious about it even though it's adorable. (He embraces everything cat except for the purring, I don't know why.)

Tip 36 - Purring doesn't always mean he's happy! Cats can purr when they're hurt! If he takes a hit and you hear him purr then you got to defeat the akuma as quickly as possible! Sooner you can cast the Miraculous Ladybugs the sooner Chat Noir isn't hurting!

Tip 37 - Don't let Chat Noir take any hits for you.

Tip 38 - Seriously. He does that way too much and I don't like watching it. Stupid self-sacrificing cat. Make sure he stays safe.

Tip 39 - Or else.

"These aren't even tips at this point!" He said, holding back a laugh.

"She does that a lot," Scarabella said with a fond smile. "With 675 'tips' a good chunk of them are ramblings."

"Six hundred and what-?" Chat said, quickly flicking through the papers and towards the end. Sure enough the very last one stared back up at him, the same number as Scarabella had promised.

Tip 675 - When you say "Miraculous Ladybug" don't forget to throw the Lucky Charm.

He flicked back a few more pages, eyes scanning the various notes that had been left. Many were just like he had expected when Scarabella had first told him what the list was: advice on what to do with different types of akumas, how the timer worked, tips for finding the akumatized object, and what to say to a victim after they were freed from Shadow Moth's control.

But then there were others, small little mentions of him and things he hadn't even realized his Lady knew or noticed, things he didn't know people cared about.

Tip 142 - If Chat Noir is dismissive with how his day has gone crack a few jokes. He tries to cover up when he's had a bad day and this is the best way to lift his spirits.

Tip 143 - Chat Noir loves hugs. Quick hugs, tight hugs, long hugs, he adores them.

Tip 144 - Chat likes to be scratched under the chin and behind his faux ears. It makes him purr, but don't mention the purring (see tip 36).

Tip 145 - Chat Noir is a cuddler.

Tip 146 - Ignore all the last few tips. Respect Chat Noir's personal space.

Tip 147 - But don't be distant either, support him! Fist bumps, pats on the back, you know, be friendly.

Tip 148 - You better be nice to my Kitty. I'll be watching all akuma coverage.

Tip 149 - No booping Chat Noir on the nose. That's our thing.

Tip 150 - No bonking him with the yoyo, carrying him in your arms, or using the nicknames 'chaton' or 'kitty', again those are our things, not yours.

Tip 151 - You can use the nicknames 'Chat' or 'CN'.

Tip 152 - He may kiss your hand. Chat Noir is a gentleman, don't let the costume fool you.

"M'lady..." Chat Noir said softly.

Tip 355 - Let Chat Noir handle the media, he's a pro at that.

Tip 356 - Don't leave him alone to deal with all the reporters though, that's a lot of pressure.

Tip 357 - Chat's ears and tail can tell you a lot about how he's feeling. I've read a lot of cat behavior articles and it's helped me a lot.

"Hey!" Chat Noir protested, even though his Lady wasn't here to see it.

Tip 598 - If anyone makes any comment about Chat Noir being dangerous or being a sidekick, you don't hold back.

Tip 599 - If it's a reporter that makes this comment give me their name and who they work for so I can make sure they never get an interview from the heroes again.

Tip 600 - Send Chat Noir a cat meme on the yoyo to cheer him up if anyone does say anything about him.

"I need to go," Scarabella said softly. "Feel free to keep those, I... I just wanted you to know that she was thinking about you. You mean a lot to her, Kittycat."

Chat Noir looked up at Scarabella, vision blurring slightly, but a smile was on his face. "I don't think 'Kittycat' was on the list of approved nicknames, Scar."

Scarabella scowled. "Well I can tell you that one isn't on my list of approved nicknames either."

Chat Noir grinned. "I'm sure it will grow on you."

"Purrhaps," Scarabella said, before giving a salute and a smile. She then tossed her yoyo, swinging away. Chat Noir watched her for a moment, before looking back down at the list he had been given.

He smiled, holding the papers close to his chest as he laid down on the roof, letting out a happy sigh.

[wolferine]

Unforgivable - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When the reader loses their temper, it causes them to commit an act they can never take back...

Warnings: Violence, blood, torture, death

Word count: 2372

Part 1

Tags: @yeetus-thyself @phoenixofash @lilclownx @yeeterthekeeper @alessiapn @diaryoflife

AN: Please read to the end before you come after me. :)

Everything is a blur. The last thing you remember is cradling Natasha in your lap and seeing the pain of betrayal in her eyes. You did this to her. You couldn’t control your anger and now she had a bullet—shot out of your gun—in her back. You hurt her and there was no way you could ever forgive yourself for that. 

You finally let Tony get close enough to take care of her, because you realized you don’t deserve her anymore. 

You run away from the Avengers Tower, your leg slowing you down, but you don’t care. Each step feels like a knife rubbing against your bone, but even that’s not enough to distract you from the pain in your chest. It feels like someone has torn you open, ripped your heart out of your ribcage, and thrown it into a bonfire.

But you have no one to blame than yourself.

Tears stream down your face as you stumble through the streets, eventually finding some privacy in a nearby forest. Your sobs echo through the trees as you crawl hand over hand, your uniform shredding open on bushes and branches. The trickle of a creek calls to you and you dunk your bloody hands in the freezing water, desperate to wash yourself of your failures.

You can’t believe what you’ve done.

The scene of Natasha falling to the floor plays over and over in your head and you would pay anything to unsee it. You curl into a ball, wiping your nose on your knees. You deserve all the pain and misery for your actions. You’re so caught up in your head, thinking about all the ways you can punish yourself, that you don’t notice the group of men sneaking up on you from behind.

“Over there! Over there!” 

“By the creek, see?”

“Wait—that’s an Avenger?”

“Looks like someone had a bad day.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

At the sound of your name, you finally lift your head, only for the butt of a shotgun to slam into your face. Your nose breaks and blood fills your mouth. You turn away, not even interested in protecting yourself. If they killed you, you would thank them.

“Aw, come on. At least give us a reaction,” someone says.

The shotgun butt smashes against the back of your head and you wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked your skull. Someone kicks your leg where you were shot, and you bite your lip to hold back a scream.

“Well, this is anti-climactic.”

“Hey, if it makes our job easier, I’m not gonna complain.”

“I still think Hammer’s weird for wanting Y/N over the other Avengers.”

“Given the circumstances, he couldn’t really be picky—”

“Stop standing around and get to it!” someone yells. 

The men surround you, punching and kicking every inch of you. The bulletproof vest of your uniform does little to lessen the impact of their blows. You feel bruises forming along your ribs and your rattling teeth bite your lips bloody. It doesn’t take long for you to black out and the peace is blissful.

***********************************************************************

Sometime later—you have no idea how long—you jolt awake, finding yourself strapped to a metal chair in the middle of a dark, concrete room. A man in glasses and a gray suit with white gloves stands in front of you. 

“Hello, I’m Justin Hammer,” he says, offering a hand, then withdrawing when he realizes your arms are tied to the chair. “Sorry, force of habit.”

You stare at him. Your tongue pokes around the inside of your mouth and you notice some teeth are missing. There is a painful crick in your neck every time you try moving your head and every breath you take feels like a razor blade scraping the inside of your lungs.

“You’ve probably never heard of me, but I’m very familiar with you and your work with the Avengers. But the reason I have you here today is to talk about this man.” Hammer pulls out a folded photograph from his pocket and shows it to you.

It’s Tony Stark, but you have no desire to even think of that man anymore.

“Your best friend, right?” Hammer teases and you curl your lip at him. “What’s wrong? He’s the one who got you a spot on the team, isn’t he?” You look away from him. “I heard what he did to your girl,” he continues. “That must’ve felt like the betrayal of the century.”

“What?” you ask, confused as to what he’s referring to.

“I heard about what happened at the Avengers Tower. So tragic.” Hammer crumples Tony’s photograph and drops it on the floor. “Romanoff didn’t deserve that.”

“W-What are you talking about? Is she okay?” Your bottom lip quivers in fear.

Hammer kneels in front of you. “She’s dead, Y/N.”

“No, no…” You feel like he’s punched you right through the chest. “T-That’s not possible.”

“I’m sorry. I know she meant a lot to you.” Hammer stands again.

“How do you even know what happened at the Tower?” Given its security, there was no way news like that reached the public. At least not the truth of it. Maybe Hammer was just trying to mess with you.

Hammer motions behind him and a blonde woman steps forward from the shadows. Her face jolts your memory, but you don’t remember exactly where from.

“Recognize her?” Hammer asks. “She actually works for me, but she’s been pretending to be a SHIELD agent for some time now. She was right outside the door when your little spat with Stark went down.” Your mind flashes back to when you returned from the mission with Natasha. On your way to the private Avengers’ quarters, you remember passing the same blonde woman right outside the door.

“She heard everything that happened inside,” Hammer says as the blonde woman retreats into the darkness again.

“N-Natasha’s…She’s…She’s not dead,” you stammer.

Hammer shakes his head. “She went into surgery after Stark shot her, but due to the placement of the bullet, there were some complications and she coded on the table. They couldn’t revive her. That part was all over the news.”

You feel so sick you want to vomit. “I…I killed her?”

“No. You didn’t kill her. Tony Stark killed her.”

You start gasping for air, only worsening the pain in your chest. “No—But—He—I’m the one who pulled the trigger—”

“But you weren’t aiming for her. You were aiming for Stark, and he’s the one who deflected the bullet into her,” Hammer says. “He’s also the one who sent you two on that mission to begin with, wasn’t he? The reason you lost your cool and pulled your gun out? Think, Y/N. All of this is Stark’s fault.”

But the sadness of thinking you’ve killed Natasha is too overwhelming. You can’t focus on anything but your own guilt. You will burn in hell for this and you won’t even mind.

“Listen to me, Y/N!” Hammer snaps, striking you across the face. His rings cut into your cheek and blood fills your mouth. “I hate Stark just as much as you do. He’s been my business rival for years and I need someone to help me take him down. Who better than you, a former friend of his, who knows how to hit him where it hurts?”

You start crying at the thought of having to exist in a world without Natasha Romanoff.

Hammer tries getting your attention by slapping you again, but you’re unresponsive. You’re too lost in your grief to process anything he’s saying, and eventually he gives up, promising to come back another time to reveal his master plan to you.

It takes an entire month before he can even communicate with you. Your depression is all-consuming and their threats on your life have no effect. They’re startled to learn you actually enjoy the torture because you believe you deserve it after what you did to Natasha. But Hammer is relentless and finally figures out how to manipulate you into his bidding.

Six months after your capture and the accident, you finally crack. Your agony and pain turns into pure rage and hatred for Tony Stark. You can’t bring Natasha back, but you can get revenge on the man who took her life. After training with Hammer’s technology, which is almost as advanced as Tony’s, you’re deemed ready to be let out in the real world. Hammer personally asks for your help to kill Tony Stark, and it’s an offer you accept gladly.

***********************************************************************

Three months after the accident…

Natasha wakes up and looks to her right, disappointed to see the bed still empty. She’s tricked herself into believing that one day you’ll show up, ready to pick up the pieces and continue where you left off. But nothing has been the same since you left.

She sits up and turns the lights on. She scoots to the edge of the bed and carefully lifts her body into the wheelchair parked there.

The bullet had struck her lumbar spine, shattering her L1 vertebrae and paralyzing her from the waist down. Tony requested help from the best doctors he knew, but even the greatest modern advancements couldn’t repair her spine. He had personally designed her wheelchair, and she knows she should be grateful to still be alive, but she’s never felt so helpless and alone. 

After the accident, you ran off and no one could locate you. Secretly, she held onto the hope you would return one day, but she knows your guilt and shame are keeping you away. She wants to tell you that it wasn’t your fault and that she doesn’t hate you, but you’re not even giving her that chance.

Tony made the public announcement that Black Widow had retired from the Avengers. No one knew she had been paralyzed, nor that you had unofficially resigned from the team. Without you, without Black Widow, Natasha didn’t know who she was anymore.

She leaves her bedroom and goes into the kitchen. Tony arranged most of the food and dishes down to her new height but she feels like she’ll never adjust to not being able to stand anymore. She locates a bowl and a box of cereal and rolls over to the table. She chokes down dry Cheerios and pours her second bowlful when Tony walks in.

“Thank God you’re finally up,” he says. “When you’re done, I have something to show you.”

“Y/N?” She perks up.

“Uh…no…”

Natasha knows Tony blames himself just as much as she does for her accident, but it wasn’t his fault either. She wrestled between anger and guilt, sometimes blaming you, sometimes blaming him. But in the end, it’s easier to blame herself. She should have stopped you the moment you took out your gun, regardless of whether or not you pushed her. But she got so caught up in the moment she froze, and now she was paralyzed and you were gone.

“Just come down to my workshop, okay?” Tony disappears again.

With nothing better to do, Natasha takes the elevator down to Tony’s workshop. She doesn’t visit often, but when she does, she’s always impressed by his latest inventions and gadgets. She rolls down the aisle of old Iron Man suits displayed in glass cases, admiring the subtle differences in each one.

“Where are you, Tony?” she calls.

“Over here!” He waves her down from the other end. “I’ve been working on this for a while, and I know it’s a little premature, but I couldn’t help myself.” Tony stands next to another Iron Man suit, but it doesn’t quite look like it will fit him.

The suit is curved to fit a woman, black and red instead of Tony’s iconic red and gold. Natasha sees a red hourglass emblazoned on the belt buckle.

“What…What is this, Tony?” she asks, tears in her eyes.

“It’s an Iron Widow suit,” he says. “Or, whatever you want to call it. You’ll have to get in and test it out for yourself, but it’ll allow you to walk again and…be an Avenger again.”

Natasha wishes she could throw herself into his arms, but pulls him down to her level instead. “Thank you,” she whispers, wiping her face. She never thought she would be able to serve as an Avenger again, but she’ll take the opportunity if it means taking her mind off recent events.

“Ready to try it out?” Tony presses a button on the side of the suit and the suit opens up, bending into a crouched position so Natasha can get in it like a chair.

 She smiles for the first time since the accident.

 “I am.”

***********************************************************************

Six months after the accident…

Natasha is in the gym, lifting dumbbells on a bench when Tony walks in. Although she now has a legitimate excuse for skipping leg day for the rest of her life, she now has to make sure her upper body is twice as strong to make up for it.

“Look who decided to slide through my DMs this morning,” Tony says, shoving his phone in her face.

Midnight. Central Park Carousel. Come alone.

The text was from you.

“Oh, my God,” Natasha says, setting the weights down. You haven’t even texted her since the accident, and she’s a little hurt you didn’t reach out to her first. “What’s this about?”

“I have no idea.” Tony shrugs. “I know it says for me to go alone, but since it’s from Y/N, I wanted to ask if you wanted to tag along.”

“Of course.” In a way, Natasha feels like the text is really meant for her. Central Park was where you had asked her to be your girlfriend. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I’ll need you to be on your A-game. We have no idea what Y/N’s been up to these past six months. I don’t know if you’re gonna like what we find,” Tony says.

Natasha has spent countless nights wondering where you’ve been and what you’re doing. Now she has the chance to find out. “It’s going to be okay, Tony,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Just so you know, I’m praying more for you than me right now.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Click here for Part 3!

AN: I never went to medical school, so forgive my medical inaccuracies.

[spookiekewchie]

⛓kinktober 2021- orgy⛓

—you and me, or three, or four...

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Characters: soft dark!Sif & the Warriors Three x woc!reader

Summary: The one where you help the Warrior's Three and Sif celebrate.

Word Count: 4.6k+

Warnings: DARK PLOT READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION, general language warning, dubious consent, getting the reader tipsy, gaslighting, oral (male and female recieiving), size kink, orgy, fingering, anal, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, spit as lube, cum as lube, cum eating, vouyerism, creampie, multiple orgasms, squirting, pet names (reader is called little one & sweet girl)

A/N: DAY TWENTY SIX OF KINKTOBER! Yeah yeah, I know it's technically a day late but it's here so that's all that matters lmao. Written on mostly on my phone but I gave it a look over, knowing me though I probably missed a few things. The divider is by @firefly-graphics

DO NOT repost or translate my work anywhere. Reblogs are always welcome, and let me know that you enjoy my fics.

You’re tired, your feet ache, your arms are sore, and yet you are still expected to serve until the last warrior has had their fill of food and drink. As expected, the Warriors Three, Sif, and Thor are the last ones present, and if past behavior is anything to go by you know they will carry on for a long while. A cup crashes to the ground and tears you from your thoughts, and the strong voice of the king calling for another has you quickly making your way over to replace his drink.

Nervously you set the tankard down, spilling some of the ale over the edge and you curse yourself for being so clumsy and in front of Thor no less. He merely chuckles, at your attempt to clean the spilled liquid. The laughter dies when you drop to your knees beside him, laser focused on mopping up the spill with the rag in your hands that you don’t notice the way all eyes have fallen on you. “My apologies, your majesty.” You mutter, and when you feel a shadow being cast over you, you finally look up to see the thunderer towering over you.

“No need to fret, little one.” Little one, the name always reminds of how much of a size difference there is between you and them. Something that embarrassingly thrills you because you know that not only are Thor and his closest friends bigger than you, they’re all stronger as well. Just as your mind starts to wander on it though you push the thought away to focus on your king. “I won’t hold a little spill against you, now get up…” he says before pausing, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips before he takes a drink. “Unless you prefer to serve on your knees.” Your eyes go wide at the insinuation, and involuntarily you lick your lips before letting your gaze dart away and look at anything else other than Asgard’s king standing over you. A sound of feminine laughter sounds from behind you, and you quickly stand to your feet and attempt to rush off before any more can be said. Your attempt at a hasty retreat is blocked by none other than the goddess Sif, and your nervousness is only amplified tenfold by her close proximity.

You try to sidestep her, but an arm comes up to block you as she presses her hand against a stone pillar. She stands tall over you, just like all Asgardians do and it reminds you of yet another thing you find devastatingly attractive about Sif. From the way she smirks down at you it’s almost like she knows, and you curse yourself for letting one too many lingering stares land on her. “So skittish, little one. Is the brute scaring you off already?” Behind you Thor’s laughter booms out of him, and you jump, startled by the sudden sound.

“No, I-um...excuse me.” Your cheeks burn as you duck under her arm and try to rush past the table that the other three warriors sit at. A rough hand grabs at your skirt and pulls you in until you're falling onto the bench and knocking into a strong chest.

“Relax, have a drink. You’re too wound up and this is supposed to be a celebration.” It’s Fandral that speaks, and when you try to tell him that you shouldn’t drink because you haven’t been released from your duties he only shoves his half drank tankard of ale into your hands. “I’m sure our dear king will make an exception.” He looks over your shoulder to where Thor and Sif seem to be discussing something that’s put sly smirks on their lips. “Isn’t that right, Thor?” He calls out, and the blond lifts his cup in the air to agree. So much for your plans to slip away and have one of the other servants tend to the raucous group for the rest of the evening. With no other choice in sight, you reach for the offered tankard and lift it to your lips.

The ale isn’t your preferred drink, but it’s strong enough to take the edge off and make you relax enough not to immediately jump away when you feel a hand sliding over the swell of your ass. Instead you try to make a subtle attempt at scooting away from Fandral’s wandering hands only to end up pulled into Volstagg’s lap. He perches you up on his lap, and for a moment you panic not knowing what to do or how to react. You didn’t find yourself in positions like this, mostly because you were too shy to entertain someone for longer than a few seconds, and you always ran away the first chance you got. You feel trapped now, and surrounded on all sides when Hogun stands and rounds the table to come to a stand behind you. He pours his remaining ale into your cup and nods in approval when you down it far too quickly. Volstagg does the same, and again your nerves have you drinking the ale down far too quickly because now you feel too pliant and a little dizzy.

“Pretty, but she is far too nervous for my tastes.” Hogun says, as if appraising your worth, for some reason you want to take offense to it but you say nothing. You know your place, you’re meant to serve, not talk back. It’s been that way ever since your realm was conquered and you were gifted to Thor among the spoils of war. To date the king has been nothing but fair to you, though on occasion you know his gaze lingers and he drops the not so subtle hint that he wants more than your loyal service. You always avoid it, but now you’re contending with his three friends and you’re feeling overwhelmed by it all.

Desperate you look to where Thor sits at the end of the table, hoping he would see your tipsy discomfort and order the men to let you go about your business. Instead what you see is he and Sif locked in a heated kiss as she straddles his lap. Curiosity, shame, embarrassment, and jealousy all swirl within you, and no matter how hard you try you can’t look away from the scene. The ale only serves to lower your inhibitions enough that your eyes don’t stray even when clothes are stripped away, it’s not until Sif cuts her gaze towards you while Thor mouths at her throat and grips her thighs that you realize you’ve been watching with rapt attention. Your eyes dart away, face burning even hotter and hips squirming as you pressed your thighs together to try and alleviate the pulsing need between them. When did you get so wet? Why did you drink so much and so quickly? You question yourself, hoping that no one picks up on your squirming. Naturally though, it doesn’t go unnoticed, and Fandral slides in close to you so that he can take you by the chin and force your gaze back on Thor and Sif just as the dark haired goddess begins to sink onto the thunderer’s impressive length.

You swallow thickly, aching to know what that might feel like but also dreading it. You’ve been untouched up until this point, sheltered by devout parents who intended for you to be a priestess to the gods of your realm. “Do you like to watch, little one?” Volstagg coos at you, rough hand starting to gather your dress up until it’s over your hips. You have nothing under it to hide your slickness, and you can only snap your legs closed when you feel a hand glide between your thighs to touch you.

“Oh I think she does.” Fandral pulls his fingers away, and they shine in the low light with proof of your growing arousal. “Tell me, is it Sif or our dear king Thor that has this effect on you.” You know the answer, and it’s not one or the other. In their own way all five of them have their way of getting to you, and it’s something you never planned on admitting out loud so you shake your head with a whimper despite how your gaze hungrily lingers on Sif’s form bouncing up and down on Thor’s cock. You clench around nothing, screaming at yourself to look away until you finally find the will to look down and clench your eyes shut. “It’s nothing to be shy about, you should be honored. Do you know how many women would kill to be right where you are now?” Fandral grips your thigh, keeping you from leaping away when Hogun suddenly cuts through the laces on the bodice of your humble dress. The grim warrior then tears the fabric in two and you’re left bare and trying desperately to cover your modesty with the scraps.

“Pl-please, I’ve never. You can’t, I can’t...I’m not supposed to.” You stammer every reason you can think of at once. That manages to sober you up temporarily, and you manage to wiggle off of Volstagg’s lap to try and make a run for it. Hogun has you by the arms quickly though, and there’s something like amusement in his gaze when you flinch at the sound of the table being cleared haphazardly. Your frantic pleading draws both the attention of Sif and Thor, who don’t even pause their lewd display.

“Her cunt is mine for the taking first, and none of you are to cum inside her.”

“No!” Thor’s order seals your fate, and you panic, not thinking of the consequences for speaking out of turn.

You're sat on the bare table, shaking like a leaf as you hold your ruined dress to your body. “Sweet girl, are you denying us, are you denying your king?” You shrink away from the three men, and spare a glance to where Thor sits with Sif still riding him. The look he gives you is a hard one, and it makes a distressed whine catch in your throat. Hogun steps away, and comes back with another tankard of ale, and lifts it to your lips to drink. Nervously you do so, trembling where you sit as you let the man ply you with more ale. “After all he’s done for you, he could have turned you out onto the street. He could have even left you in the ruins of your realm with nothing.” Fandral’s reminders of Thor’s kindness plant the seed of guilt, and with the fresh influence of more ale in your system you don’t consider that Fandral is just using words to manipulate you. Meanwhile, the sounds of Thor’s and Sif’s pleasure flood your ears and lead your mind down an even more dangerous path. “And haven’t we treated you kindly, do you really think we’d hurt you, little one?”

Fandral is charming, and a smooth talker, you know this already from watching him interact with those around him. Having that turned out makes you squirm in unease and nervousness. You nod, watching as Fandral takes the cup from Hogun’s hands and lifts it to his lips for a drink before offering it back to you. He hums in approval when you gulp down a mouthful, leaning in to lick the small amount that dribbles from the corner of your mouth. “A little gratitude for all our kindness is well overdue wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, I just…” You look around again, head swimming with shame and alcohol, while your eyes are always drawn back to Sif and Thor’s writhing forms. “This is improper, and I’ve never…” You shift away slightly when Volstagg leans in to inhale your scent with a satisfied groan. He mutters something about wanting to find out if you taste as sweet as the honeyed plums, and cinnamon that you smell of. Your cheeks burn, and before you can attempt to clumsily run away Fandral has a hand gently tangled in your curly locks.

“Then relax, little one, and let us enjoy our celebration.” He urges, and you can feel the tattered remains of your dress being tugged away to expose you to the hungry gazes that are on you. You don’t miss the way that Volstagg settles in front of you, his calloused hands spreading your thighs to take in the sight of your slick folds before he drags your hips to the edge and leans in to drag his tongue against you. You gasp and squirm not used to the feeling, and awkwardly you have no idea what to do with your hands. A flick of his tongue against your clit makes you gasp, and the jolt of pleasure is so strong that you can’t keep yourself from moaning in pleasure. Your hands fly to Volstagg’s hair, tangling in his red locks and pulling hard. It draws a groan out of him and the sound rumbles against your bare sex to embarrassingly draw another whine of pleasure out of you.

Two sets of hands ease you back until you’re laying on the table, encouraging you to simply let go and let yourself enjoy what’s happening. Fingers knead and grope at your breasts, plucking at your stiff nipples until your back is bowing up off of the table, and your hips are squirming against Volstagg’s mouth as he greedily presses his tongue into your quivering hole. Your eyes fall shut for a moment, clenching tight as you try to fight the slow building pressure building between your thighs. It’s easier said than done with Sif’s moans filling your head, and the sounds of Thor loud pleasured grunts. Foolishly you think, however, that if you can’t see them that your body won’t react as strongly to the couple or two the three men toying with your body. But you can feel how wet you are, and you can also hear how messily Volstagg works between your thighs. You’re dripping, and your arousal is slick and dripping down to leave a mess on the table under you. Still you keep your eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see the moment when Sif falls over the edge, and Thor follows after her, and it’s not until you feel two soft lips pressing against your furrowed brow that you snap them open to find a smirking Sif beginning to climb over your face.

You’re confused for a moment, but no less enraptured by the sight of her glistening and used sex as it drips Thor’s spend against your lips while she slowly lowers herself onto your mouth. You let out a muffled sound of surprise, but she shushes you gently and tells you to relax. “Be a good girl and clean me up, little one.” You whimper under her, unsure of what to do so you experimentally let your tongue press past your lips to drag against her and mimic what Volstagg has done between your thighs. She moans above, muttering praise for how clever you are for figuring it out so quickly, and despite the situation they’ve put you in you can’t help but preen at the praise. It gives you an incentive to let your tongue explore, and chase the taste of Thor’s spend as it seeps from her and onto your mouth. You’re embarrassed to admit even to yourself that you find the taste of the thunderer’s cum and Sif’s cunt addicting, but you know that it shows in how you eagerly push your tongue into her. She rewards your willingness to please her with her fingers against your clit, strumming over it as two thick digits push carefully into you. You don’t know whose fingers they are until you hear Thor’s voice saying “They may share you when I’m done, but you’re mine, little one.”

“Ours,” Sif corrects him with a breathy moan when your tongue finds her bud and drags over it. “What’s yours is mine, my love. Don’t forget.” Her words draw another booming laugh from Thor, and if you could think straight in the moment you might have done more than writhe and moan under Sif at the stretch of Thor’s fingers inside you. The pressure starts to build more quickly, but before you can reach the breaking point, Thor’s fingers are sliding out of you and instead something much thicker is being pressed against your sopping entrance. Your body tenses, and Sif lifts her hips from your mouth to run a soothing hand over your thighs to coax them further apart and urges you to relax and just focus on her. You nod, knowing that no amount of protests or pleading will stop this from happening. Fandral’s words still replay in your mind as well, and guilt seeps in at your wanting to deny the king what he wants, but even more concerning than that, there’s a part of you that wants to feel what Sif had felt earlier. Thor waits until he feels some of the tension leave you before he breaches your entrance, cursing at your tightness as it envelops him and he carefully breaks past the barrier that marks you as a virgin.

You cry out, tears spilling from your eyes at the intense stretch as his cock forces your tight walls to accommodate his girth. It feels like too much, he’s so big and the size difference between you makes you think that he might break you if he moves now. You can’t focus on anything other than the overwhelming pressure of being so full, and Sif’s fingers circling against your clit. “Please, it’s too much. It hurts.” You beg, a thin whine of distress following your desperate pleas.

“Oh I know, I know, little one. I can feel how tight you are, it’s like I can just barely fit.” You can hear the strain in his voice, and you realize that he’s trying to hold himself back from fucking you the way he wants to. Your mind is so frayed and spinning so rapidly that you can’t help but feel grateful to him for this small mercy despite the rational voice in the back of your mind screaming that he should have never pressured you into this to begin with. That voice is drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears and how fast your heart is beating in your chest.

Sif’s fingers continue to strum against you, and finally pleasure starts to break through the pain and your body stops clenching so tightly around Thor’s length. He takes it as his cue to start moving, and you cry out, hands flying up to grip against Sif’s thighs, needing something to hold onto to keep yourself grounded. “Stick your tongue out.” It’s a simple order from Sif, and you manage to comply between the moans that have started to escape you. With your tongue pressing out of your mouth and flattened, Sif shamelessly uses your mouth, grinding her slick sex over the pink muscle until your tongue is coated in the taste of her. “That’s it, sweet girl. Keep your tongue out just like that.” She urges, and you can hear it in her voice that she’s close again. It doesn’t take her long to cum against your tongue, her cream spreading over it as she shudders above you. The moment she’s moved off of your mouth a loud cry flies out of you, Somehow Thor’s sank even deeper inside of you and it has your knees trying to press together until Sif draws them back to leave you even more spread open for the god to use.

You sob out in pleasure, and you can hear the chuckles from the men when Hogun steps forward to take advantage of your open mouth. He pushes in, letting your saliva coat his length before he delves further and you begin to gag around him as he breaches your throat. Somehow you’re grateful for all the ale that they’ve made you drink, because you’re sure that if you were truly sober you’d be fighting more and not allowing Fandral to talk you through the moment of feeling like you were going to choke. “That’s it, breathe through your nose. Good girl, you’re doing so well.” He tells you, mouthing at your breasts and letting his teeth pluck at your nipples. It helps just barely, but there’s no feeling any less overwhelmed between Hogun’s cock in your throat, and Thor’s spearing into your cunt while Sif’s weight on your midsection keeps you pinned between the men. They all use you for their own pleasure, ignoring your whining protests around Hogun’s cock when you feel your hands being pried away from Sif’s thighs so that one hand can wrap around Fandral, and the other around Volstagg’s length.

They use your hands to stroke themselves until your body automatically follows through with the action on his own. “I knew you’d be good for us.” Thor grunts, pressing a large hand over your mound and letting his thumb stroke against your clit. It sends white hot sparks of pleasure shooting through you, a more intense sort of pressure being added into the mix and rapidly building. You want to scream but the sound is ruined and garbled around Hogun’s length as it batters your throat. Your body squeezes around Thor, and he groans loudly as he begins to thrust into you harder and work your clit faster. Your orgasm overwhelms you, and you scream again and this time the vibrations of it around Hogun’s length send him over the edge. His spend fills your mouth, and you swallow without instruction before gasping for air and crying out at the continued stimulation from Thor who is still between your thighs.

You’re almost relieved when he cums, feeling like you can breathe easier without your pleasure being used against you. You don’t even complain when he fills you, all you want is to crawl away to your chambers and clean yourself off. Instead you find your body being manipulated and repositioned until Fandral is under you, and Hogun is behind you scooping up some of Thor’s spend to use as lubrication. Your haze of alcohol doesn’t stop you from panicking when you feel the warrior’s fingers prodding at your back hole, slowly opening you up all so he can slide his drool-covered cock past the tight ring of muscles. You curse, trying to pull away only to have Hogun’s hands catch your hips and bring you back against his length with a hiss. The pressure is unfamiliar and for a moment it hurts until your body finally relaxes around him.

You think he’ll just fuck you like this and that will be the whole of it, but then you feel Fandral lining himself up with your entrance and you sob out a plea for him to wait. You don’t think you can take both of them at the same time, but he doesn’t listen and pushes in anyway. You choke out a strangled sob of pleasure and pain. You feel too full, and too stuffed, but it’s like they enjoy knowing that they can make your body take them however they want. Knowing that doesn’t help, and thinking about how much bigger and stronger they are that they can just use you like this has a fresh wave of your arousal slicking its way over Fandral’s cock.

Mouth opening to cry out again, you find it suddenly filled by Volstagg and all you can do is press a hand against his soft belly and moan around him. You’ve never felt so used or helpless in your life, and when you feel Hogun grabbing your hands to hold them behind your back you feel even more like a toy caught between the group. Even Thor and Sif are making you feel used despite not touching you at the moment, but they watch you as they fuck like you’re nothing but entertainment to them. That shouldn’t give you pleasure but it does, and somehow that’s worse because when all you start to feel is pleasure it becomes far too easy to simply give yourself over and let them rut into you with hard thrusts and rough paces.

Lust, and alcohol have beaten out shame and shyness, something you aren’t entirely sure if you’re grateful for or not but it makes this bearable and you can feel yourself enjoying the way each of their cocks saw into you in tandem. Each push of Fandral’s and Hogun’s cocks inside you jolts you forward onto Volstagg and pushes him deeper into your throat, and each thrust into your mouth from Volstagg jolts you back. It’s a volley and you’re caught in the middle, left to ride out the pleasure until you're cumming again with a muffled scream of pleasure around Volstagg. He empties into your mouth, and Hogun follows suit to fill your ass with his spend. Fandral pulls out of you, quickly moving to press himself into your open ass and gives a few pumps before he too is cumming and adding his spend to Hogun’s.

Again you think it’s over, but Thor and Sif have other plans. You’re gathered into his arms, moved so that your back is to him and then you feel him guiding you onto his length to fill your ass again. You cry out, feeling stretched more than you already are. The others were thick, but they don’t compare to Thor and you know that if it weren’t for the cum already leaking out of your fucked out hole that this wouldn’t feel nearly as good as it does. “Gods!” You cry again, feeling Sif in front of you and pushing three fingers into your cunt as she straddles your thigh.

“I think we’ll keep you, little one. No more servant duties for you,” she says, and you gasp when you feel her fingers curl against a spot inside you that you didn’t even know was there. “Just pleasure, and being ours.” She coos, moaning when Thor uses his strength to make your body rise and fall against his cock. Sif’s cunt grinds against your thigh with the movement, and her fingers drag back and forth against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. “How does that sound, sweet girl?”

You can’t think, not like this, if you could then maybe you’d be more embarrassed by the wet squelch that’s coming from your cunt. Instead you’re nodding blindly, too caught up in this new pressure that has a coil twisting so tight inside of you that you’re sure it’ll snap any second now. “Say it, say you want to be ours.” Thor growls against your ear, and you shudder out a moan as he continues to make him ride both his cock and Sif’s fingers while she grinds against your thigh.

“I do, I want—I want to be yours!” You cry, and then the coil is snapping and you’re cumming again, gushing over Sif’s fingers as she rides your thigh to her own end, and Thor pumping his spend deep inside your ass with a roar.

You’re spent, panting and feeling heavy and light at the same time. The high settles in, and you let it take you somewhere calm and peaceful. You don’t register Sif redressing herself before lifting you off of Thor, or him taking your tattered dress from the ground to cover you before she carries you off to their shared chambers. You’re in a state of half wakefulness, but by the time you’re bathed and placed in their bed you’re fast asleep and clinging to the goddess with Thor behind you and his heavy arm slung over the pair of you.

lol surprise! thor's also in this because I like to spoil yall

[visenyavires]

Bleed Not For Death, But For Love

Chapter 4: Dangerous Game

Warnings: Kidnapping, suffocation, entrapment, blood, nudity, mild sexual content

I am startled awake to the sound of mischievous giggling that I recognize as the daughters, and once again, it’s growing closer. I try to think quickly, knowing that they probably expect me to be asleep so I sit up and put my hands in my lap as if I’m expecting them. The giggles grow ominously louder and suddenly the double doors to my chambers fly open and three swarms of flies create a massive shadow in my room. 

The first daughter that materializes is angry, her black hair flying around her face like dark rays of light. She has blood splattered across her tar-colored mouth and cheeks, and her eyes are manic… almost sadistic. 

“I knew it,” she snarls, her eyes fixed on the marks on my neck. “She let Mother play with her.” Another daughter with red hair forms close to me and gets near enough to take a deep inhale of the dried wound her mother had made only hours before. 

“Mmmmm, I want to play with her too,” she coos playfully as the third daughter with blonde hair finally emerges from her insect swarm. 

“Enough, Daniela. There will be plenty of that later,” the blonde says calmly, but wickedly at the same time. Daniela backs away from my neck and giggles maniacally as she retreats to her blonde sister, who I take as the eldest. 

“Bela, she was supposed to be asleep,” the black-haired daughter seethes at the eldest sister through gritted teeth.

“We improvise then, Cassandra,” Bela snaps in her direction. “Get creative.”

Before I know it, Cassandra is holding me by my throat and laughing maniacally. She begins to squeeze and it doesn’t take long before I begin to lose consciousness. Before I slip away, I hear Bela command, “Take her to the dungeon, we need her screams to be as far from Mother’s chambers as possible.”

……….

I wake up on a cold, wet, stone cell floor with the daughters waiting for me, talking quietly amongst themselves. It’s dark except for a few wall torches giving minimal light and it reeks of blood and mildew. I sit and lean up against a side wall and my head begins to pound violently while blood drips down my face from my hairline. Daniela takes a huge sniff of the air, grins widely with a happy moan, and turns toward me.

“She’s awake, sisters! Dinner is served,” she hisses. Cassandra removes her sickle and walks slowly towards me.

“I’ve been waiting for this since you first stepped on the castle grounds,” Cassandra grins sadistically. Bela stays silent but has a mischievous glint in her eye. Something isn’t right. As Cassandra inches closer, I scoot backward towards the back of the cell. I’m shrouded in more darkness the further I scoot back as the torchlight slides off my face. She opens the cell door and her sickle gleams in the torchlight menacingly. My throat goes dry and I know they are reveling in the fear they see in my eyes by Cassandra’s increasingly sadistic smile. At this point, I’m fearing for my life when Cassandra moves quickly toward me, the tip of her sickle pressing into one of the marks her mother had made on my neck. She looks at my neck, tilts her head to the side, and grins wickedly as she meets my fearful gaze.

“Please,” I whisper. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I plead, my voice shallow and quiet. Daniela flies towards me and before I know it, she’s cuffing my wrists with chains that are attached to the vaulted ceiling of the cell. Bela walks to a lever as if on cue and the chains are pulled into the ceiling, forcing me to stand, then eventually, my feet are no longer on the floor. Daniela then cuffs my ankles tightly and the pull on my arms makes my shoulders burn. My heart is racing and not in the way it was only hours ago. This time, I’m frightened. Cassandra now has full access to my body and she cackles.

“Mother needs to share her food with her children,” Cassandra purrs in a very similar mannerism to her mother. She grins and stares at the place on my head where blood is slowly dripping from, then meets my gaze again. 

“Should we crack your skull open some more or should I slit your throat and bathe in your virgin blood?” she asks with a cackle and presses her sickle further into the side of my neck, breaking the skin. The daughters giggle collectively and are all surrounding me now, hunger filling their eyes. 

Like a deep church bell, an angry scream rings through the dungeon, and before the daughters could even turn around, Lady Dimitrescu storms into the stone halls, claws out. 

“DAUGHTERS!!!” she bellows as she enters my line of sight. Her laugh lines have disappeared into a snarl of rage, her eyes irate and full of fury. The three girls turn around, absolutely terrified, and stand up straight to face their mother. Daniela is the first one to break.

“We are so sorry, Mother, it was just a prank,” she says with a trembling voice.

“Yes, Mother, we didn’t mean to hurt her, we only wanted to scare her,” Bela explains with fearful eyes.

“Speak for yourselves,” Cassandra mumbles in a whisper I assume only I could hear since Alcina doesn’t react to it. The pure rage in her eyes is enough to make your heart stop and her impressive height only makes her that much more intimidating.

“You are playing a very dangerous game, daughters,” she warns loudly with ravenous anger filling her golden eyes. This prompts Bela to lower the chains and Daniela removes the cuffs from my ankles, then my wrists as soon as my feet reconnect with the stone floor. I collapse to the ground on my hands and knees looking at the wet ground, dizzy from all the recent blood loss, my head pounding, back burning, and blood from my head filling my eyes. I hear her claws retract and her voice booms through the stone halls.

“I want all three of you OUT of my sight!” she yells angrily, her long, heavy steps growing closer to me. 

“Yes, mother,” they say in frightened unison and I hear their fly forms appear and fade away just as quickly as they came. 

……….

My breath is ragged and I’m trembling with weakness, fear, and disdain. Suddenly, I see white satin draped over a crouched form in front of me and I feel a large, gloved hand slide gently from my cheek under my chin, softly raising my face to meet her gaze. Her porcelain expression is full of concern as she sees the wound on my head and the fresh cut on my neck dealt by Cassandra’s sickle. Tears fill my eyes as relief joins the Pandora’s box of emotions I’m already feeling and I struggle to cry silently. As if she can feel everything I am, her expression softens and she takes a handkerchief to gently clean the fresh blood and tears off my face. I feel safe, protected, even slightly adored by this woman who I have miraculously taken to so quickly.

Alcina sighs with disappointment and I know it’s at her daughters. She carefully sweeps me up into her strong arms and lays my head against her soft, plentiful chest. As she carries me out of the cold, dank dungeon, sunlight peeks through the windows and the scent of her ambrosia perfume makes me feel at peace and my pain fades a bit. Her chest bounces slightly with each step and it’s helping me keep my eyes open. I know if I close my eyes, I won’t wake up for a while.

I look up at the goddess incarnate carrying me down her castle hallways, her sharp jawline showing miles of confidence. Her scarlet lips form a serious frown and her eyes look straight ahead. She adamantly walks past my chambers and I’m grateful. I do not wish to see that room for a while. Tears continue to fall from my eyes onto Alcina’s chest and she looks down at me, her expression softening again.

“Don’t cry, pet. The worst is over now,” she says reassuringly. I believe her, but only for now. 

The rest of the castle flies by with her long strides and before I know it, she’s ducking beneath her chamber doors, taking me back to her bed. She lays me down on top of her large, soft comforter and walks into her master bathroom. I let out a huge sigh of relief to be in the safest room in the castle instead of being in the situation I was in only ten minutes prior. After a few minutes, Alcina returns from her bathroom wearing only her blood-red robe and holding fresh towels and a brush. 

“Can you stand?” she asked gently, setting the towels and brush beside me on the bed. I shake my head with disappointment, the vertigo is just too strong and I’m too frail to hold myself up. She nods understandingly and helps me sit up. I’m able to hold myself up in this position and I turn so my legs hang off the edge of her bed. She walks around to the other side of her bed and crawls up behind me. She runs her large but delicate hands up my arms until she’s holding my shoulders. She continues to move closer, her legs bent with her calves beneath her and her thighs straddling my hips from behind. She ran her long fingers through my hair before grabbing the brush and using the slow strokes she loves so much to get the tangles out. When my hair is soft and smooth, she plays with the back of my dress that I've been wearing since the night before.

“Do you mind, pet?” she asks with a sultry tone. I involuntarily shudder at her touch and I nod my consent. She slowly opens every clasp and undoes every button so that my whole back is exposed, then she returns her hands to my shoulders and slides the fabric down my arms so that my whole torso is bare. I begin to cross my arms to cover my breasts but porcelain hands gently grab my wrists.

“Ah, ah,” she says as she lowers my arms from behind. “There’s no need for that,” she purrs. 

“Yes, My Lady,” I say, my frozen cheeks filling with heat. 

“Alcina, draga mea,” she insists. I nod my understanding and I feel her left hand run back up my arm and the other sink to my bare waist. Chills of desire follow close behind her touch and I can feel her smiling behind me. She pushes all my hair to one side of my neck so the right side is exposed. She leans in close to my neck where Cassandra made her mark and kisses it tenderly. Her lips are warm and I want to stay like this forever: in her arms with her lips on my neck. When her lips depart from my skin, she whispers in my ear, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Alcina slides off the bed in front of me and takes in my bare chest with a warm smile on her face, but the grin fades when she notices the bruises all over me, probably from when I was unconscious while her daughters moved me to the dungeon. She shakes her head, clearly upset, and helps me stand, which causes my dress to fall to the floor, my panties being the only item of clothing left on my body. I stand before her, as vulnerable as I’ve ever been, and I bow my head in frail embarrassment. She lifts my head with her index finger and a smile of silent apology and reassurance. 

“You are beautiful, Y/N,” Alcina says softly, in a tone I never knew she could reach. She’s commanding, a leader, and sometimes harsh. She was yelling at her daughters only minutes ago- something I never want to see again, and now she’s speaking to me in the most comforting tone I’ve ever heard. I’m amazed, infatuated, and obsessed. I’m not afraid to admit it to myself, or anyone else for that matter, only her. 

Alcina scoops me up in her arms again, carries me to the bathroom, and gently stands me in the massive claw foot tub that’s full of perfectly warm water. She squats down low enough to run her long, scarlet nails along the edge of my panties and looks up at me yet again, her eyes asking for consent. I nod so she pulls them down and I rest my hand on her shoulder to help keep my balance while I step out of them carefully. I feel immensely vulnerable but too weak to care. Isn’t this what I want? Why am I feeling borderline shame??? I shake my head at myself internally and meet Alcina’s golden gaze below.

“Thank you,” I say softly and with a bashful smile. She returns the smile as her way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ and helps me sit slowly in the middle of the tub. I start to scoot back to relax, but she places a hand on my shoulder to stop me. She then stands up to her full height and unties her robe. I feel my face flushing with heat as the red silk falls to the floor and I can’t (and won’t) help the look of awe I know is plastered on my face. Her large porcelain breasts caught my eye and I almost started staring and something told me she wanted me to. I bite my bottom lip partially out of desire and partially to keep my jaw from hitting the floor in amazement. 

My mind is stuck on being professional, but given our current setting, I’d say we have quickly moved past that point. Smiling, Alcina then steps into the tub behind me and uses the edges to help her sit gracefully. Her long legs straddle me from behind and she then grabs my hips, pulling me back towards her. As small as I am, I’m sure I seem like a doll to her. She gently and carefully washes me with a soft rag covered in ambrosia soap that matches her perfume. After I’m clean, she runs her taloned fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, carefully avoiding the wound just behind my hairline. I bravely allow myself to lean back and relax into her stomach and she caresses my face from behind. Her gentle touch works its way down to my neck, her nails playing with my skin. I want her to keep going, so I arch my back and lean into her touch. Her muscles shift in reaction and she leans forward into my ear.

“Oh, how I desire to, pet, but I do so love the taste of your virgin blood. I’m not quite willing to part with it just yet,” she purrs softly. She plants a kiss on my warm cheek, then turns my head with her finger again and her ruby red lips meet mine. I begin to feel warmth between my legs as she holds my face gently with one hand and slides her other hand to the front of my stomach, pulling me close. But just like that, her lips depart from mine and she stands to get out of the tub, leaving me only with a smile and scarlet-stained lips. She dries off with her back turned to me and slides her robe on over her snow-white skin and turns back to me. 

“Take the day to rest and if you need anything, I’ll see to it that the maids know to come to your aide. I’ll have Francesca take you to your new chambers. I think you’ll prefer the location,” she says with a wink and she turns to leave but stops in the door frame and turns her head so she speaks to me from her side profile. 

“See you at dusk, Draga Mea,” she says in a deep, sultry voice that makes me crave to hear more. She closes the doors behind her and my body aches with desire. It’s thrilling how she loves playing with me and it only makes me want her more. I stay in the tub long after she’s gone, still shocked by the events that had transpired. Alcina… a temptress, countess, seductress, mistress. Her confidence, her regality, her beauty, her stern but gentle hand. Her porcelain skin, her scarlet lips, her height that can make anyone submit, her wickedly seductive grin... I am simply amazed by her and all that she is. But a thought hits me hard enough to snap me out of my trance… I am mortal. 

I am her prey.

 It took me a moment, but now I realize that the true dangerous game here... is falling in love with Alcina Dimitrescu, and I’m right in the middle of it.

To be continued…

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Next: Chapter 5: Just a Taste

Previous: Chapter 3: Devotion, You Shall Have

[mandoinevarro]

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical​ @pascaliprincess​ @geannad​ @coaaster​ @frietiemeloen​ @yourbucky084​ @brynnstudies​ @elfwoodfae​

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

[some-messed-up-writing-for-you]

Hero is young compared to Supervillain. Supervillain can tell Hero is getting depressed and overwhelmed so they send their druggie/fuck up of a son, Villain, to fuck with Hero. Villain gets Hero to drink, smoke pot, etc and they wind up sleeping together which causes Hero to latch onto Villain. Villain doesn't feel here or there about Hero; They'll take the companionship, but they're dealing with their own shit so this is just a way to distract themself.

Request #15

Warning: nsfw, dub-con, alcohol & drug intake, manipulation.

A bit of a more complex one, but fun nonetheless!

Enjoy! [:

~~~~

Hero heaved out a tired sigh as the thugs they had just stopped a few minutes ago got taken away by the police. They collapsed down into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of the rooftop they were on. The hero stifled a yawn and rubbed at their sore eyes, dark circles hiding beneath their mask. As they watched the city's artificial lights mix with the moonlight's glow, their mind began to wander to places they did not want to visit but really couldn't stop themself from exploring.

At the same time, on top of a nearby building, two figures cloaked in the darkness observed as Hero got lost in their thoughts.

"Damn, I can't even see their face, and this bitch still looks depressed as fuck." - Villain muttered, their own mind tired but still much more 'collected' than the hero's. Their comment earned them a look from their superior, Supervillain.

"Just go and get the job done." - the older criminal ordered, a dark hint to their voice. The villain silently stood there for a moment before giving them a small shrug and moving towards the rooftop's edge.

"You got it, pops." - they responded in a monotone voice and jumped towards the next building. Villain moved from one rooftop to another, their footsteps silent, undetectable, deadly.

"If only all that skill had gone to someone less pathetic." - the supervillain thought bitterly and then retreated out of sight, disappearing amidst the shadows.

Hero, still unaware of the presence standing right behind them, quietly mumbled to themself, "...Why the hell did I pick this job...?"

"I dunno, 'cause you're a dumbass?" - the villain answered from behind the hero, startling them and nearly making them fall off the edge. They hurriedly got up into a fighting stance, ready to defend themself.

Villain only snorted in amusement, walking to the edge and sitting next to where Hero had been just a moment ago. They patted the ground next to them, inviting the hero to sit, "How's about we talk instead, ay?"

With a small grin, they added, "You look like you could use a break."

"..."

Hero, very much convinced this was some sort of trick, continued to stand there, ready for combat. The villain's grin left their face, and they turned their gaze to the city below. "Alright then, guess I'll just do the talking."

"..."

"So, like I was saying. You're a dumbass."

"..."

"Like, come on, man, you think you can just keep up this little heroic act forever?"

"Yes." - Hero finally answered through gritted teeth.

"Oh! So you can talk after all! You're still lying to yourself, though." - Villain said, a stupid smile on their face that infuriated the other to no end. It upset them because the criminal was right. And Hero hated that fact so much.

Deciding to keep up their lies, the hero responded, "I'm doing perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"Yeah, 'cause sulking all by yourself on a random rooftop in the middle of the night sounds so healthy." - Villain pressed, pissing Hero off even more, their body slowly shaking with anger.

"Ugh! Just what do you want?!" - they exclaimed, glaring at their enemy. They didn't have time for this! They- They didn't want to deal with this... They knew just how miserable they were... they didn't need a reminder...

"I just wanna help ya out." - the villain answered, giving the hero an oddly convincing look. There was pity in their eyes, but also... understanding?

Gah! No, that makes no sense! What could... Villain possibly know...

"You want to... help me...?"

"Yup!"

"...Why?"

Villain silently looked at them for a moment before their eyes went to the city lights once more. "Everybody needs a break from their own mind's bullshit every once in a while, no?" - They quietly asked.

Hero was unsure of how to respond, doubt creeping into their thoughts. Should they trust them? Perhaps... just one time wouldn't hurt? Before they could answer, however, the villain stood and offered them their hand, catching them off guard again. "Come on. You could use a distraction."

"And so could I..." - Villain thought, as they watched the hero internally battle themself, considering their options. After what felt like an eternity of silence, Hero relaxed their stance and, with a small sigh, slowly approached the villain and took their hand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"This is where you live?" - Hero questioned, a bit astonished at the state of the apartment the villain had taken them to. While the place was a decent size, it was an absolute mess. Dirty laundry and trash were scattered everywhere; it smelled about as good as it looked.

"Then again... who am I to judge...?" - the hero thought bitterly, remembering that their own home wasn't looking that much better.

"Lovely little place I got, ay?" - Villain responded, dropping themself onto a big gross couch. What were all those stains from exactly? Hero decided they didn't need to nor want to know and sat next to them.

"Uh... yeah. So, what exactly are we here for?" - the hero asked, looking to the villain. The other merely scooted to the edge of the couch and pushed some trash aside, revealing a cooler. They pulled out two beers from it, handing one to their nemesis.

Before Hero could say anything, Villain, seemingly out of nowhere, pulled out a bottle opener and cracked both their drinks open. The villain immediately took a swig while the hero sat there for a moment, staring at their own bottle silently before thinking, "Oh, fuck it." and chugging nearly half of it.

"Ay! There ya go, Hero!" - Villain grinned, giving them a rough but friendly pat on the shoulder. Hero couldn't help but smirk a little themself. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad?

And then Villain pulled out a bag of some questionable powder.

The hero looked at them skeptically, taking another swig of their drink to cool their nerves. Their hesitance didn't go unnoticed by the other, who gave them an even wider grin. "Have you ever tried it?"

"Well.. no..." - Hero answered, the alcohol slowly getting to their system. God, why were they such a lightweight?

"Then don't knock it." - Villain continued, dumping the powder onto the table in front of the two, arranging it into neat little lines. The hero watched intently as the other leaned down and took one of the lines, inhaling it through their nose.

Hero set their beer aside and did their best to copy them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A few hours have passed. Both Hero and Villain were now waisted the fuck out of their minds, barely comprehending any of their actions. The two were leaning against each other, blabbering some nonsense that made them giggle.

The villain's hands suddenly found their way to the other's chest, lightly trailing up and down it. "Say, Hero, wanna make this even more fun?"

"How??" - the hero slurred as Villain got up and dragged them along to another room. The two managed to stumble their way into the criminal's bedroom, Hero landing on the bed with the villain right on top of them.

"Oh..." - they started, their hands wandering across their enemy's body seemingly on their own. "Alright." - they said, and Villain dragged them into a sloppy kiss.

Very quickly, both of them freed themself of their clothing, throwing it aside and letting it get lost in the endless sea of trash that was Villain's apartment. Their skin met and felt perfect against one another. Hands were roaming all over, memorizing each other's bodies, finding all the right spots to touch that drew sounds from them.

As their lips parted for air, they both groaned as their hips ground together, the friction rising pleasure in them. Hero wrapped their limbs around the villain's body, holding onto them as they slid into the hero.

Their mouths met again, moans becoming muffled, the sound of the bed creaking in rhythm with Villain's thrusts filled their ears. As their enemy hit the right spot, Hero's fingernails dug into their shoulders, their back arching into them as the other sped up.

It didn't take long for both their breathing to grow unsteady. Their thrusts and movements turning chaotic and sloppy as they neared their orgasms. The villain's name slipping past Hero's lips as their muscles clenched tight and flexed, Villain reaching their own finish in nearly perfect sync with them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Days went by, then weeks, then months. Criminal activity has been on a clear rise, civilians growing fearful and demanding to know why the hero was letting it happen, demanding that they do something, but their 'hero' was long gone now.

All this time, Hero had been meeting up with Villain more and more. They thought it would just be a one-time thing, but it had evolved into so much more. At first, it was just once a week or two... Then once every couple of days... And now...?

Now the hero was glued to the other's hip; they saw them every day, getting waisted beyond belief, getting lost in careless pleasure. People were dying, but Hero didn't care. Villains were winning, but Hero didn't care. They couldn't bring themself to care anymore...

Villain, meanwhile, was doing a bit better than them. They were glad to have a solid distraction for once. It felt nice to have company, to have someone else they could be miserable and ruined with every day of their existence.

Still, outside of that, though, the villain didn't care much. If Hero got hurt, then they could deal with it on their own, and if they died...?

Well, then they died, and Villain would have to find a replacement.

Just like they always did...

[kiwi--bot]

Patterns

Rating: T Words: 2,872 Warnings: Blood, Injuries, Al-An doesn’t understand emotions very well. Summary: Al-An prefers when things fall into an easily recognizable pattern. It’s how data forms, it’s easier to work with, and less surprises make it easier to remain efficient. Robin is a rogue bit of code in the set sequence.

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Indeed, it had been quite some time since Al-An was allowed to exist in any dimensions outside of their temporary isolation. And truly, Robin had done well in the fabrication of an Architect form that would suit their needs to relocate the pair off the planet, and return to their home with the remedy for the Kharaa Bacterium; for the Architects of their home world.

Unfortunately, following the reconstruction of their new form, Al-An is hit with the immediate problem that their supposed mode of transportation has... degraded over time; and they are quite lacking really on the resources department. Countless amounts of bits and bobs, here and there, that simply corroded over the years, or just did not operate further. And every small tick of a list of issues added up to an inoperable phase gate. Yet Robin-- ever so helpful Robin-- offers to help collect whatever Al-an could need to repair their ship.

“Always together, even if you’re not stuck upstairs anymore,” She had joked, tapping the side of her head in an emphasized way. How Al-An could only think of how true that statement was...

And so, life on 4546B settled into somewhat of a steady, even pace for Robin and Al-An.

Robin relocates her primary base to the facility where Al-An prepares for convenience’s sake. She wakes up late in the morning, and Al-An’s learned to get a cup of coffee steaming hot and settled at her nightstand at precisely 13:29. This in turn helps her wake up and become functional no later than 13:50-14:00, depending on how late she was up the previous night.

Following that, Al-An fabricates a nutritious meal of her choosing, and it’s set onto a table-- or, a section of the facility that’s been repurposed into a table-- and she eats before she heads out for the day to find the resources needed. (And always, Al-An makes sure that there’s a fabricated meal packed away in a thermally-controlled container for her to take along.) And like clockwork, Robin is back at 22:22 with her Seatruck stuffed to the brim with all the supplies she could find.

And usually Al-An has to check her for injuries or parasites and she just grins when they comment on how inefficient her resource-gathering is if she must hurt herself every single time. “Awww, you just like to fret over me, Al-An,” she coos as they utilize their on-hand medical devices to knit up skin from a rather nasty bite.

“I do not fret, I observe,” Al-An states plainly, and Robin rolls her eyes, only wincing a little when Al-an has to wipe over another puncture with that strange antiseptic gel, and the skin closes under the heat of that magic little tool that Robin has yet to scan. “And I know that humans are one of the most fragile things that get in more trouble compared to any living creature I have yet to meet.”

“I’m gonna talk that as a compliment, Al-An.” Robin flexes out her wrist once the wound is all sealed up, the only reminder a faint scar left in the wake. She flashes a grin at the Architect, who would promptly turn back to what they had been working on prior before they needed to patch her up.

At 27:00 or 28:00, Al-An ceases working for a short period-- one Robin requested so that they don’t overwork themselves. Of course, an Architect cannot really do such a thing as ‘overwork,’ but Al-An humors her. And Robin’s meal is fabricated and settled on the table no later than 28:50. She used to always request Al-An eat dinner with her-- and although they do not eat like she does, they sit nonetheless at her side.

And Robin will scroll through her PDA and read the day’s logs once again, chewing hear and there and really making an inefficient use of her time as she often does. But humans like to be that way-- leisurely, as Robin once corrected them-- and so Al-An will not question it again.

She always leans back against the stone of the her temporary seat, shrugging and shuffling and making a good amount of noise that could startle even the most focused Architect from their endeavors. Over time, she would unconsciously lay against Al-An’s side, and that often settled her, so they would not comment.

If they had to admit something, the pressure therapy from her body weight was a welcome one, given they did not have the proper tools to recreate such things.

Robin turns into bed anywhere from 1:00-3:00; it will depend on what areas she visited, and what the day’s events involved. And she will bid Al-An goodnight with a smile and pat on their arm, before she retreats to her bed. Although, she doesn’t really go anywhere, because her ‘room’ is just a small section of the facility adjacent to where Al-An primarily works.

She’s fabricated herself a bed, some storage, and even hung up some curtains to block out the steady glow of the facility. It’s a small little space that reminds Al-An of how Architects would furnish the habitats of subjects they used for research.

Peculiar.

And this is how their pattern would fall into, resetting each day at 13:29 with the first coffee of the day. Al-An finds the repeating pattern of each day, as Robin would put it.... soothing. Did Architects even need to be soothed? Historically?

No. And yet Al-An could not help but find this... calm, inside the promise of the known. Perhaps it was a way for them to deal with the fact that they might not know what would await them on the other side of the phase gate, where they would have to face their people, and answer for their mistakes. Perhaps that reason is why they can now find solace and even comfort in something as simple as a daily pattern.

How the other Architects would be baffled at the thought. The very notion of it was so unlike them all. Al-An would have to blame Robin for this, at the very least.

Merging with her cerebral cortex must have changed something in their emotional status....

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

And with the promise of a steady pattern, Al-An could find each day predictable enough to not impede any portion of their work. They worked quickly to repair what needed repairs, to adjust what needed adjusting, to alter what needed altering.

Steady. Steady. Steady. Repeat.

The illusion of this pattern gets shattered when 22:42 arrives one evening, and Robin is not yet home. Al-An, logistically, should be business as normal. She could have gone farther, she could have had a small set-back, she could have gotten distracted. But when 23:22 arrives, and Robin is still not home, Al-An finds they cannot work.

The data rolls in front of their vision as normal, the facility is operating at 100%, and they have spent the better part of this week weaving data in such a way that it is second-nature. But their hands do not move, their gaze is transfixed on the door, and the progress of their work is stunted.

She should be back by now. She should have been back exactly 60 minutes ago.

Al-An cannot work. They shut off their normal programs and instead set up a long-range scan. It puts them off schedule immensely, but they, for once, cannot find it in them to care about inefficiency. It takes 20 minutes for the scan to prepare, and the entire time, Al-An keeps their gaze on the door. Like Robin will burst in any second, with a couple new wounds, yes, but here, and alive.

Robin does not enter the door by the time the scan is online at 23:42.

Robin does not enter the door as the scanner searches at 23:43.

Robin does not enter the door as the scanner searches at 23:44.

Robin does not enter the door as the scanner searches at 23:45.

Robin is not home as the scanner searches at 23:46.

Robin is not home safe as the scanner searches at 23:47.

Robin is not home safe as the scanner searches at 23:48.

Robin is not home safe as the scanner searches at 23:49.

Robin must not be safe as the scanner finds her at 23:50.

Al-An must prepare for the worst, even as they wish to leave as soon as the scanner reads her biosignature in the Arctic. No good in retrieving her if they do not have food, medical supplies, warmer clothing, an extra hair tie-- she always complained when her current one would break-- and anything else humans needed when they were potentially in distress--

No.

Robin is not in distress. The very thought has the Architect frozen to the spot, a flicker of something so unfamiliar buzzing through them. She is fine, just delayed. Off-schedule, off-pattern. No matter, Al-An will locate her and then they will both repair that.

They finish collecting everything needed into a neat pack, and just as they prepare to put the facility into lockdown, there’s a familiar faint splashing, and then footsteps padding across a stone floor.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It is 24:17 when Robin Ayou enters the Architect facility she calls home with her arm crudely wrapped in a sling and her leg leaving a trail of blood. But nonetheless, she’s got the same grin on her face, and carries something sharp in her uninjured hand. She’s limping.

“Al-An!” She calls, her voice loud and full of excitement. She’s stumbling over her own feet, and Al-An blinks to her side to catch her with the beam of their mechanical arm, lifting her right off the ground. She doesn’t notice how their posture is tight and tense, instead waving the sharp object in her hand. “Al-An I did it! I fought off one of those Shadow Leviathans and I freaking won!”

Al-An does not reply.

“It tried to eat me, Al-An!” Robin’s arm waves wildly in her excitement, and she doesn’t protest when Al-An brings her to the empty table to seat her, once again getting to work on mending what is broken. Her injured arm has several gashes in it: some down to the bone, and covered messily with plant matter. Al-An removes those and starts on sterilization.

“It yanked me by the arm, but I was quick-- I stabbed him right in the eye, and I held on, because he was pulling me towards his mouth!” She grins wider, adrenaline masking any pain from the antiseptics, or how the beam begins to knit the skin and muscle back to one piece. “I lost my grip on my knife, but I grabbed his spine-- or whatever those glowing things on his belly are-- and I held on and kicked him right in the stomach!”

Al-An silently redirects attention to her leg, where acidic liquid had eaten through her suit and burned the skin-- not too horribly, but bloody. That is treated next.

“And then I must of hurt him bad, because he let me go, but not before I yanked and yanked on those spine things-- And look! I got it, I ripped one clean off!” She’s talking quickly, her body thrumming at the thrilling tale, and feeling so alive. “I felt bad at first, but then I remembered that he tried to eat me, so I shrugged it off, and he backed off after I ripped off this. I won, Al-An! Against a freaking Shadow Leviathan!”

Robin laughs, slapping her now healed hand against her forehead and grinning wildly. “God, I thought for sure I was a goner when I didn’t take the prawn suit down--”

“And why didn’t you, Robin?”

They are both startled by the tone of Al-An’s voice. And Robin finally realizes that Al-An is stiff, mechanical in how they treat her-- so different from the almost caring way they usually do. And they are glowing a sickly yellow color, their gaze transfixed on her wounds as the mechanical arm fixes up the burns on her leg.

“I-I.....” Robin is at a loss, her eyes now locked onto them. “I.... don’t know.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between them. Al-An finishes up work on her leg, and then does a general scan over her to make sure they didn’t miss any other wounds. Processing, methodical, even.

Something is wrong, Robin thinks. Even now, as they seem to pull away from the situation, the same sickly color tinges the edge of her vision. Robin catches their arm as they turn to assess her findings, and she doesn’t miss how they tense.

“Al-An....” She begins, but stops. She can’t find the right thing to say. It all feels wrong. Like anything she says next won’t be the right thing to say. But she tries with, “Are you okay?”

“That is hardly a question you should ask me, Robin.” Al-An’s voice has gone back to the same, even tone as when they first met, but it’s all off. Too even, too tight. Like there is something beneath the surface, just hiding and waiting to strike like an Ice Worm. “You should ask yourself that. You were the one who was injured. Sustaining traumatic injuries is detrimental to the overall health of--”

“Did I scare you?” She asks, and Al-An falters.

“Fear is not a concept we feel,” They state, and yet they now feel the sinking familiarity of it nonetheless. Fear. They were afraid, they had been afraid when Robin was not home at the right time. They were scared when Robin returned injured. They were scared when she recounted her harrowing tale, and they were scared that she’s going to do it again and they would not be there to pick up the pieces--

“Al-An...” Robin’s voice cuts through the swirling data inside their head, and her eyes are soft as she reaches and touches their chest gently. She feels.... awful. Physically and emotionally. How could she not realize that they were upset? How could she have been so blind when she’s normally so in tune with the Architect? “Al-An, I’m really sorry.”

“You have done nothing that warrants an apology,” Al-An states; but their lights flicker pink for the briefest moment. “You were simply acting inefficiently and radically in a way that could have resulted in several versions of a potential death, which is not uncommon for your species.”

Robin smiles. That unintentional insult was 100% all Al-An. She shifts closer to them, and then her arms wrap around them, and she leans her head against their chest, and she imagines she can hear their heartbeat through their thick, armored body. “I know, I was being an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hugging you, Al-An. Never had a hug before?”

“Architects do not partake in this sort of behavior,” Al-an tells her. But, nonetheless, they mimic her movements, and their organic arms encircle her smaller frame, and having her close to them like so reminds them just of how tiny and delicate she is. “....Touching one another was not commonplace.”

“Then I’m gonna make it commonplace, and I’m gonna give you a hug everyday until I catch up on the hugs you’ve missed out on your whole life,” Robin hums as she closes her eyes, yawning.

“That would be impossible, given the length of your human lifespan,” Al-An corrects her, but they find the idea of one of these each day not entirely unpleasant. Robin laughs, and she just smiles. And their lights shift to a light pink as she falls asleep against them, and they return her to her bed: asleep too early for the schedule.

But it was alright to be a little off-pattern.

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And so, life on 4546B settled into somewhat of a general routine for Robin and Al-An.

Al-An has her coffee ready at 13:29 and she drinks it as she wakes up and rolls out of bed by 14:00. Al-An fabricates breakfast, packs her a lunch, and she’s out the door for the day’s work. And if she returns at 21:57 or 23:37, Al-An is not worried. After all, she’s returning with less injuries, and that is good enough for them.

Together they sit when Robin has her dinner and Al-An has their break around 28:42, and Robin reads aloud her PDA entries to Al-An-- even though they could easily scan and upload the documents themself, it makes her feel happy, so they indulge. And Robin leans back against Al-An without hesitation once she’s done eating, and they find the pressure nice.

And when 1:00 or 2:00 rolls around, just before she turns in for bed, Robin will throw her arms around Al-An for their daily hug, and she will hold on tight for a good few minutes, and Al-An learns to hold her in return. Perhaps if they held long enough, tight enough, she would never be in danger again.

And they find that perhaps, maybe... they like hugs.

And Robin fashions the Leviathan fragment into a necklace, that she gifts Al-An.

And Al-An wears it everyday.

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Soulmate September

Series Summary- a collection of one shots exploring different ships and au concepts. The list I created and am following can be found here.

Day One: Sparks Fly

Summary: Virgil goes deeper into the forest than he’s ventured before in the hopes of gathering more food. He finds more than he bargained for when a fairy claiming to be the prince of the forest begins to follow him.

Warnings: food mention. If there’s more please let me know!

Ships: Prinxiety (Virgil x Roman)

Prompt: Feel a spark when you touch your soulmate

WC: 3959

AO3

Tugging his long, dark cloak impatiently away from a jagged branch, Virgil skid down the steep embankment swearing the entire way. He didn’t often venture this far into the woods but he was getting just desperate enough to find gatherable ingredients he had decided to risk it. Honestly as long as he kept his eyes straight ahead and avoided the beckoning twinkles of light between the trees he should be fine. Thankfully this time of year the river was reduced to a large creek at best, making crossing to the other side where he was certain to find berries and mushrooms aplenty quite easy. It was only a matter of keeping his balance on the slimy rocks that normally made up the river bed, a skill he had mastered before he had even been entrusted as a gatherer.

Hiking his pants up to just below his knees he carefully adjusted his pack to be more balanced and draped the bottom of his cloak over his arm for good measure. The last thing he needed was to be scolded for dripping mud all over the floors again when he returned to the kitchens. Absentmindedly rubbing the stinging memory from the back of his head he hopped to the first rock, breath hissing between his teeth as the cold water rushed over his heated skin. With another breath he was perched on the second rock and then the third, toes gripping the moss in a mostly unneeded measure for stability. Wiggling a bit so his pack would recenter he eyed his next target, muscles tensing in preparation for the bigger leap.

“What are you doing?”

Squawking in alarm, Virgil tipped back dangerously, arms pinwheeling as his feet lost their purchase and let him fall backwards into the creek. Taking a brief moment to thank the gods he hadn’t landed on a rock he sat up quickly, sputtering as water ran down his face and soaked his shirt more than it already was. His cloak dragged behind him as he tried to get up, aiding only in him slipping back again with an unceremonial splash.

“Oh my dear I didn’t mean to frighten you!” There was more mirth than malice in the voice but that didn’t stop Virgil from flinching away from the strange hand that reached towards him. It retreated as he shoved sopping hair from his eyes and squinted against the sun to try and see what idiot made it a habit to scare people when they were jumping on wet stones. His breath caught when a face finally came into focus, sunlight forming a halo around the most beautiful person Virgil had ever seen.

His brightness was almost blinding, with shining red curls looking like spun gold in the light. Sharp features complemented kind brown eyes and tanned skin flecked with earth. Like Virgil he was barefoot, but instead of wearing sturdy pants and shirt to protect himself from the woods, autumn-red pants flowed just below his knees with an equally flowy white shirt tucked into them and unbuttoned to the chest. Despite the darkness of his skin he seemed to radiate his own gentle light that somehow made the sun look dull by comparison, making Virgil idly wonder if this was what seeing a god was like.

“Prince actually, but you do know how to inflate the ego.” The man chuckled.

Face burning with the realization that he had not only said that outloud but he had also been sitting in the water gaping like a stunned fish for entirely too long. Mumbling low curses under his breath he once again struggled to his feet while waving away the other’s outstretched hand impatiently. A fairy prince coming to pester someone with zero assets or connections- the fae were worse pranksters than they had the reputation for. Sighing, he decided to wade the rest of the way through the creek since he was already soaked, leaving the stranger behind in hopes he would stay there.

“So you never did answer.” No such luck apparently. “You do realize what part of the forest you’re in right?”

Virgil gritted his teeth. “I don’t wish to consort with your kind fae. I’ll only be in here for a little while.”

“My kind?” Virgil winced as he detected insult in his tone. “My kind are the reason your kind feel safe enough to traipse wherever you please regardless of obvious territorial lines!”

Virgil glanced at him quickly as he began scrambling up the incline of the bank. “Territorial lines?”

The man drew himself up proudly, keeping pace with Virgil as he effortlessly stepped his way up the embankment rather than crawling. “This part of the forest is mine, a long way from the edge of the river by your route. I could turn you into dandelion fluff for trespassing here.”

Virgil raised an unimpressed brow as he searched around for his next handhold. “Mhm, I’m sure you could.”

Smirking as the other man stomped his foot impatiently he made it up and over to the other side, slinging his pack around to see how damaged the things he had already gathered were from his earlier fall. Shoulders sinking as he surveyed the smashed contents he shot a glare at the stranger, who was currently standing on tiptoes with his arms crossed trying to see inside the bag.

“Humans used to grovel at our feet, what happened to that? Also is it custom to smash ingredients well before they’re cooked? I’m not caught up with the latest human affairs. Terribly dull, most of them.”

Gritting his teeth Virgil dumped the berries and mushrooms he had collected onto the forest floor, water that had seeped in from the top sloshing out as well and coming out like a weird, thick juice for all the mush everything had turned into. “They only smashed because I fell- something I never do unless someone decides it's a good idea to startle someone who’s trying to balance.”

The man looked unimpressed. “Why were you coming over this way anyway? There should be plenty of the things you were collecting on the other side of the river...and much closer to the nearest village too might I add.”

“Fall makes the pickings slimmer the closer to the village you are. Other people gather, animals eat what ‘s left, sparcer trees means more sun means things ripen and fall faster. I was trying my luck further in.”

“And you came alone?”

“None of your business.” Virgil hauled up the pack and stood. “I’m a tracker so I’m the one that usually gets sent out.”

“Oh really? Must be an expert to come out this late.”

“Sure.” Grunting, Virgil stepped over a rotting log and began pushing his way through bushes.

The man snorted. “Expert tracker- when I could hear you tromping through here from across the forest.” 

“Your words not mine. And stop following me, I’m only here to gather ingredients.”

They continued on in silence for a while, the fae following behind him near silently as he kept an eye out for anything edible. The crops had been plentiful this year but berries, nuts and mushrooms weren’t something locally grown, so gatherers routinely went into the forest to search for them to dry for the winter. Fast protein was always welcome in the harsher months when tracking fresh meat became a dangerous chore.

The forest was quiet here, nearly serene if it wasn’t for the fae still following him no matter how harsh a path he took- not that he was having much luck finding easier ones. He imagined he could easily get lost here if he wasn’t careful so he kept an eye on the direction of the shadows and any landmarks he spotted so he couldn’t get turned around. Fair folk were rarely hostile towards travelers as long as you met them on their level and stated your intentions clearly. Most of the time a certain level of sass while only answering them when they were curious served Virgil just fine. Of course, they didn’t normally follow him either but he remained unconcerned so long as the forest didn’t turn hostile. He didn’t think he’d succeeded in pissing the other off that much...hopefully.

It was some time later when Virgil found his cloak snared on a branch as he was struggling to get over a particularly high log. Crawling under it hadn’t been an option so now he was stuck straddling the thing awkwardly with the cloak snagging in one direction and his pants in the other. Blowing out a frustrated breath he startled as the fae appeared a foot from his face, brown eyes searching his green ones as he struggled not to fall backwards for a second time.

“What are you tracking anyway?”

“What?” 

“You’re a tracker, so what are you tracking?”

Virgil resumed trying to lift himself enough to get his other leg over without ripping his pants. “Nothing at the moment. Not that, again, it’s any of your business.”

The fae glanced at the dirt under his nails and hummed thoughtfully. “Mushrooms is it?”

Groaning, Virgil sat back down and instead reached behind him to try and tug his cloak free. “Partly.”

Trying and failing to get his cloak untangled he stumbled as his feet found solid ground after dangling for the better part of ten minutes, nearly overbalancing for the third time that day as the fabric went limp in his stranglehold. Looking up he saw the spot on the river bank he had climbed over not ten minutes before with a significantly lighter pack. Confused, he slung it around and peeked inside only to see it nearly overflowing with varieties of mushrooms he had never seen mixed with the more common ones he had found before. Opening his mouth to speak he quickly shut it as a light breeze carried faint laughter through the trees.

“Feel free to thank me later.” A faint voice called.

Looking down again, he carefully closed the pack and looked up at the sky. It was barely encroaching late afternoon...would anyone believe he had gathered these that quickly? Deciding to just say he had gotten turned around and found a good spot if anyone asked he started hiking his way back as slowly as he could. He’d have to find something to offer as thanks when he came back.

-----

“You’re back.”

Virgil shuffled around a low shrub between the trees awkwardly. “Mhm.”

“Do you need more mushrooms?” The fae crouched on a low branch, balancing on his tip toes as he watched Virgil struggle through the underbrush. 

“They asked me to come back- ow!” Stumbling away from the bush he knelt down to tear away some thorns sticking out of his pants. “Since I was so successful yesterday they asked me to come back to find more. Among other things.”

“They?”

“People from the kitchens.” He started off in a slightly different direction, seeing sunlight a little ways away and hoping for a clearing.

“What else do you need?”

“A variety of things to dry for the winter. Nothing to concern yourself with. I won’t invade your forest for too long.”

“A shame. My forest is beautiful but I’ve found I enjoy looking at you more.”

Virgil stopped in his tracks as he tried to process the comment. Was this a trick? Some weird fae flirting technique to get his guard down so he gave away his soul? Which reminded him-

“Not because of that comment, but for helping me the other day.” He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a smooth skipping stone, the surface a perfect, uniform pale gray. He knew fairies rarely had use for human materials but things like this could be enchanted or used for entertainment- the more pleasing to the eye the better. “Here. And...thank you.”

The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of the stone, taking it carefully and running his fingers gently over the smooth surface. “For me?”

“Don’t expect it again, I don’t expect anything more from you.” Hoping that would settle it, Virgil continued on in the direction of the clearing. Fae were always tricky to get involved with and with the fall harvests approaching, continuing to speak with one claiming to be a prince wasn’t something he would allow himself to get involved with- at most for the sake of the village and at the very least for his own sanity.

“A pity really.” The fae called from behind him. “I could help you find whatever you need.”

Gritting his teeth, Virgil resisted. “I don’t need any help.”

“Right, expert tracker and all that.” He startled as his pest of a companion appeared in front of him waving a hand dismissively. “This is my forest and I can bend it however it suits me at the moment. Right now it suits me to help you, why won’t you let me?”

“I don’t want to owe you anything. Owing things is a risky business- especially with fae. No offense.”

The fae sniffed indignantly, putting a hand  dramatically over his heart. “No offense indeed! I suppose this wound was here before you arrived, it’s fine really.”

Virgil glanced over as the other man draped a hand over his eyes and leaned back slightly, sighing loud and deliberate and trying to disguise the fact he was peeking at his human companion from under his arm. Virgil couldn’t help it- he barked out a laugh he managed to quickly catch with a hand slapped over his mouth. Watching as a wide grin took over the fae’s features he realized he was too late and the damage had been done. He stalked over and jabbed the air in front of Virgil with a perfectly manicured finger. 

“You like my company!”

Blinking, Virgil lowered his hand. “Absolutely not!”

“You do! You find me amusing! Dare I say charming!”

Snorting, Virgil readjusted his pack. “Uh-huh. Nothing like a raving lunatic spouting he’s royalty to get the giggle juice flowing.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe fae will say anything to strike whatever emotion they want in a human. Whether it be fear or awe, the end goal is always to lead someone astray.”

Glancing over he startled when he saw the other man actually looked a bit hurt at his words, head down and eyes flicking to the side with a tight draw to the lips. A trick...obviously. But one that had him reconsidering his choice of words.

“Look I-”

The fae held up a hand. “It’s okay! I’ll prove it to you! You need mushrooms and berries and the like right?”

“Uh- yeah?” Virgil watched as the fae stepped forward and furrowed his brow in concentration. Bringing his arms up towards the clearing he swung his arms out and up before slouching tiredly. 

Virgil squinted against the sunlight shining overhead, looking around in wonder. They were in a large clearing absolutely teeming with enough plantlife to fill his pack ten times over. Dappled shade dominated at least half of the clearing as the sun shone through the bright trees at an angle. Soft grass soothed his aching feet that had previously been treading on nothing but snapping sticks and long-dead leaves. It was beautiful- and  glancing over at his companion as bright gold shot through his hair and the sudden calming warmth relaxed him- Virgil could tell he was in his element. 

“Did you just use magic in front of me?” He honestly hadn’t thought the fae would go that far to prove a point.

“Watch regular fair folk top that for ability.” the fae mumbled under his breath. Speaking up, he flashed a bright smile and punched a hand lightly onto his hip. “Of course! Got the point across didn’t it? Never seen a fairy bend a forest before?”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen a fairy perform any magic before. Usually they keep that to themselves. Honestly none of the good neighbors have paid me any mind before whether I was in their territory or not.”

“Oh.” The fae sputtered uselessly for a moment, fluttering his head to his hair to fidget with the curls. “Well, clearly that’s their loss. Berries, was it?”

Face burning, Virgil nodded mutely and made his way over to a far tree that looked like it promised chestnuts in the higher branches. He never figured having company, however forced upon him it was, would be so nice. 

Later, when Virgil’s pack was practically bursting at the seams, he reluctantly turned towards home. The afternoon had been wonderful, gathering enough to make the people in the village happy while listening to the other man as he sang almost like he didn’t realize he was doing it. Rich, low tones filled the clearing with a bright melody that Virgil didn't recognize but found himself humming along to- much to his companions utter delight. 

It had surprised him when he began singing popular festival songs after that, thinking that fair folk never bothered much with humans and therefore wouldn’t know many traditional tunes. But when Virgil had started softly singing along, offering a wry grin when the other man had started excitedly bouncing on his toes from having a singing partner he couldn’t bring himself to care. Eventually both of them had started getting louder and louder, swaying along to an invisible beat as they had continued collecting what was needed. Another reason Virgil was reluctant to return to the village for fear their noise had reached ears he’d rather not explain himself to. He found it strange that he felt drawn to stay, stranger still that he didn’t immediately think it was some trick on his companions' part. He just- enjoyed his company and wished he could come into the forest to actually visit rather than just his job. Pressing his lips together he turned around, smiling faintly and gesturing to his back.

“You really didn’t have to help, or keep helping. But thank you again-”

“Roman!” The fairy blurted at his slight pause.

Smirking, Virgil cocked his head to one side. “Aren’t I supposed to give you my name first?”

Roman shuffled slightly. “Yes well, seems a shame that if you were to think of me you’d have no name to give the thoughts.”

“Bold of you to assume I think of you after leaving the woods.”

“How could you not?” Striking a bold pose he sniffed indignantly. “It’d be an insult really, wounding me so deeply.”

Chuckling Virgil turned and started walking away. “I’ll be sure to bring bandages next time.”

“It’s a date, Doom and Gloom!”

“That a promise, Sir Sing-a-lot?”

“If my serenades are what brings you back I shall renounce my princehood and become a siren.”

“Your voice is certainly deadly enough, leads to something prettier though.” 

The forest was silent for a moment, before Virgil began walking as quickly as possible without stabbing his feet to the edge of the woods. Why had he said that? Did he mean that? Of course he meant it but why on the gods green earth had he said it? Could he even come back now? Chest tight with nervous anxiety and head swimming he didn't look back as he dashed out of the trees.

Though if he had he would have seen Roman standing stock still, face a mask of shock but slowly splitting into a flustered smile below rapidly reddening cheeks.

-----

When Virgil stepped into the creek the following day, it was without his pack. Early evening sunlight drifted through the trees as a slight breeze ruffled the cloak around his shoulders. Pushing his dark hair away from his eyes he surveyed the banks for any sign of Roman, deflating a bit when he saw none. It was stupid to think he could get away with saying something so forthright without reaping anything but negative consequences. It was just as well he supposed, consorting with fair folk never led to anything good after all. He had just- hoped this would be different.

Fair folk and humans rarely mixed well, platonic or not, and once he found his soulmate he was doubtful they would enjoy the thought of fraternizing so casually with one of the good neighbors- especially one as powerful as Roman appeared to be. If he knew anything of the fae it was that one didn't just casually bend an entire forest to their will with so little effort by themselves. Sighing, he turned to leave, feet missing the wispy grass of the clearing as they crunched through dead leaves.

“Going so soon?” Whirling around he was met with a charming smile, Roman balancing on a rock in the middle of the creek with a hip thrust out cockily.

“I thought- I didn’t think you’d come back around.”

“If you were trying to get me to leave, your methods are wanting my friend.” Roman squinted at him curiously. “No pack today?”

Virgil shuffled a bit before answering. “I- just wanted to see you.”

Blinking in surprise, Roman smiled warmly. “What an honor it is that our wants should align. Care to join me?”

Face burning, Virgil was quick to hop to the first rock, finding his balance easily. Keeping his head down he stepped from rock to slippery rock, finally getting close to where he assumed Roman would be. Looking up however, he didn’t expect to be quite as close as he had gotten, vision suddenly filled with deep brown eyes surrounded by flaming red curls. Yelping he tipped backwards, arms reaching forward in a desperate attempt to not repeat their first meeting even as he prepared to go home soaking once again.

To his surprise, the riverbed never rose to meet him, instead finding himself surrounded by the scent of wildflowers and moss in the most comforting embrace he’d ever been in. Virgil tilted his face up when he heard Roman gasp in wonder, his own eyes widening in disbelief as he leaned back to take in their surroundings. Colorful sparks seemed to catch the evening sunset as they bounced off and around them, falling like stars imbued with the colors of the sky and sizzling as they hit the water only to be immediately replaced by ten more. 

Leaning back but still catching each other’s arms they watched as the sparks continued to fly around them in a frenzied shower, dimming the already fading sun itself in their wake. Virgil watched as the light caught itself in Roman’s eyes, flecking the brown with golds and brilliant reds and deep purples. Seeing his face literally light up in amazement and wonder, Virgil couldn’t help but let out a low chuckle, then tilting his head back and laughing out loud.

“What- why are you laughing?” Receiving no answer, Roman grinned uncertainly. “Do I have something on my face?”

Shaking his head, Virgil stifled another bout of laughter to answer. “I’ve never seen the sparks of soulmates before. Are they supposed to be this dramatic or is it just because of you?”

Smile turning more genuine and laughing himself, Roman let go of his arms and instead wrapped his arms around his waist and lifted, twirling them around with a sure step even as the water splashed around his feet. Setting him down gently, he rested his forehead against Virgil and held him as close as he could. 

“Maybe both- knowing me, probably more of the latter. Do you really mind?”

The sparks were dying down as the sky darkened and yet to Virgil his companion still stood bright enough that he feared nothing the darkness could threaten him with. Leaning impossibly closer he touched Roman’s nose to his  own and smiled softly.

“Absolutely not.”

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[flowercrown-bard]

Pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: ~2k

content warnings: Animal death (griffin)

summary: Eskel waits for a griffin to show up when a brightly dressed bard shows up and tries to set the little goat that Eskel wanted to use as bait free

------

“It’s alright,“ Eskel said as soothingly as he could. “You’re going to be safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

A mellow bleat was the only reply he got and the tiny goat nudged Eskel’s chest with her head. Eskel smiled. He could feel the scars tugging at his lips, but it didn’t matter, not when his goat was the only one around to witness it.

Eskel secured the rope that would keep her from running away on a stake he had stuck in the earth, making sure the knot would stay in place. With one last pet or her head, Eskel stood up.

“I’m coming back for you,” he promised, before retreating into the shadows of some trees.

As soon as Eskel was out of sight, Lil’Bleater began living up to her name. Searching for Eskel and tugging at the rope, she let out a pitiful bleat.

If her scent hadn’t already been enough to attract the griffin’s attention, those sounds would do the job.

Eskel pressed fiddled with his crossbow, every muscle as tense as a bow string as he waited for the beast to arrive.

But instead of the unmistakable shriek of a griffin and the darkening of the sky as the beast flew before the sun, something far worse appeared that made Eskel’s heart drop like a rock.

It began with the sounds of snapping twigs and rocks being kicked, coming closer. Then, carefree singing joined in the distracting sounds.

A human.

Eskel couldn’t see them yet, but it was clear they had no intention of turning back.

What was a human doing here? Everyone in town knew that this field wasn’t safe. There was a reason why they had hired Eskel. No one dared come here anymore, not as long as there was a griffin attacking everything it could get its claws on.

And now there was a human – unsuspecting or just plain stupid and reckless – coming towards the griffin’s hunting place. Right where Eskel had set up bait to lure the griffin out.

For a brief moment Eskel contemplated leaving his hideout and telling the person to leave. But approaching lone travellers was never a good idea. Eskel knew what he looked like. He had no illusions of being received in a friendly way. If he told the person to leave they would likely run straight back to the town and probably tell some tale about how he had just barely escaped a witcher attacking him.

It wouldn’t be the first time of something like that happening to Eskel.  

So he stayed hidden, praying that the person would just leave quickly on their own.

Lil’ Bleater’s cries got louder, more urgent. The singing stopped. For a moment, so did the sounds of the person’s footsteps. Then, they picked up again, faster this time.

From the trees that had blocked Eskel’s sight before, a man appeared, hastening towards the goat. A lute that marked the man as some sort of bard, was slung around his back and he wore a bright teal doublet that looked so out of place in this area that was mostly inhabited by farmers that Eskel could do nothing but stare.

The man cocked his head to the side like a curious bird when he laid eyes on Lil’ Bleater.

“Hey there, you adorable little thing.” Eskel couldn’t see the man’s face, but his smile was evident in his bright voice. “The shepherd forgot you here? Don’t worry, I’ll get you back home.”

Eskel stifled a curse when the bard kneeled down in front of the goat and ran a hand over her fur with a delighted laugh when Lil’ Bleater nibbled at his fingers, all the while babbling excitedly at her. His laugh was almost as melodious as his singing had been before. Eskel didn’t get many chances to hear people laugh so carefree. Most laughter died when people realised that there was a witcher in their midst.

Eskel watched with a strangely fast beating heart how the bard started to work on the knot. He let out a string of colourful curses when he realised that the know was too tight for him to untangle.

“Fret not,” he said in a dramatic voice through clenched teeth from the effort. “I will rescue you.”

He was so strangely theatrical, that Eskel forgot himself and let out a short laugh, not loud enough for the bard to hear, but enough to startle Eskel himself. He couldn’t remember a time when he had laughed outside of the halls of Kaer Morhen.

Eskel was so taken aback by the unexpected thought, that for a second he forgot to pay any attention to his surroundings. Being negligent was a mistake a witcher only made once in his life.

A moment of distraction was all a griffin needed to emerge from the sky. It was quiet as it approached its prey. The man probably would have never noticed the impending danger if it weren’t for the shadow falling over him. His head snapped up and he let out a terror-filled cry.

It tore Eskel out of his stupor.

He jumped forth from the trees, his free hand stretched out before him and racing towards the bard. A burst of igni interrupted the griffin’s dive, but it Eskel wasn’t close enough yet to even singe the beast’s feathers.

“Get out of here!” Eskel shouted at the bard, whose head snapped up to him.

Eskel had no time to pay any attention to the way he looked at him. He had to focus on the real threat. Readying his crossbow, he ran ever closer. The first bolt flew through the air while he was still mid-run. It barely hit its mark.

The griffin screeched, Lil Bleater let out a terrified cry and the man panted in panic. And still he didn’t get up, didn’t even scramble away.

Out of the corner of his eyes Eskel saw how he worked more frantically then before on Lil’ Bleater’s restrains.

His heart skipped a beat. The distraction lasted only a second, but it was enough for the griffin to take a turn and dive down again, his claws aiming for Eskel.

Eskel cursed and unsheathed his sword. The griffin was almost there. Only one more second and he would be close enough to hit it. Or be seized by the deadly claws.

“Watch out!”

The shout came at the same time that something barrelled into Eskel and it wasn’t the griffin.

No man could push a witcher to the ground with his strength alone, but the shove came so unexpected, that Eskel tumbled to the ground when the man tackled him. The man let out a muffled groan when he fell onto Eskel, for some reason not even trying to catch the fall with his hands.

The talons of the beast missed the bard by a hair’s breadth, Eskel could almost see them gracing his hair.

His heart clenched and without hesitation, Eskel flipped them so that the reckless stranger was lying beneath him. Eskel didn’t look at him as he shielded him with his body.

The griffin’s beak darted forwards and Eskel threw up a quen-shield.

“Stay down,” Eskel commanded harshly and jumped back to his feet and spun around. This time, when the griffin lunged for him, Eskel’s sword buried itself deep into its flesh.

Panting, Eskel stood over the beast as it crashed to the ground, just a few feet away from the man. Without hesitation, he delivered the final blow.  

The stranger whimpered when the sword made a squelching sound as it was torn out of the griffin’s body.

Eskel wanted to whirl around and scold the bard for how stupidly reckless he had been. Heroes didn’t survive for long out in the real wold. If he had died that would have been on Eskel.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and tried to sooth the frown lines on his face away as he slowly turned to face the man again, though not enough to put his scars on full display. The bard had just escaped death, he didn’t need to be scared any further.

“Are you alright?” Eskel asked as gently as he could, but his breath hitched when he finally met the man’s eyes.

They were wide and impossibly blue and they didn’t look at Eskel as if the bard thought that Eskel would be the next thing to attack him. The blue-eyes man didn’t flinch back from the yellow gaze on him and no renewed spike of fear reeked off of him. True, the smell of panic still clung to him, but beneath him, but fainter than before and there was a strange sort of excitement coming off of the man.

He let out a startled laugh, likely a result of the realisation that the danger was over now.

“That was fantastic!” He shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. “That was the most amazing thing I have ever seen!”

Eskel’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t….”

His words dried in his mouth and he had to force himself to tear his eyes away from the curve of the bard’s smile and the glint in his eyes. Eskel shouldn’t let that get to him. Neither of these things were truly meant for him. Once the bard calmed down enough to think rationally again, the would realise that Eskel was not someone to smile at.

“I told you to run,” Eskel said, more to keep himself from wishing that this brilliant smile stayed on him. “You could have gotten hurt.”

The bard tilted his head to the side and he gave Eskel a long look. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have let that happen.”

Eskel didn’t reply. It was the truth, but the bard almost made it sound as if he thought Eskel was some sort of hero for it.

Uncomfortable under the almost admiring look, Eskel let his eyes wander over the bard’s body, making sure he truly wasn’t injured.

Eskel’s breath got stuck in his throat when his eyes fell on what the bard was holding protectively to his chest. The tiny goat that was cuddled comfortably in his arms gave a happy bleat.

“You…” Eskel’s eyes snapped back up. “You saved Lil’ Bleater?”

For a second the bard looked like he was about to scoff at the idea that he could ever let an animal get harmed, but then his eyes lit up in delight and his smile widened as if Eskel had said something that earned him such a reaction.

“Lil Bleater? That is the most adorable name I’ve ever heard.” A glint of mischief entered his eyes. “And what might your name be? I can keep calling you my valiant saviour in my head, but I think I’d much rather put a name to that handsome face.”

Eskel let out a huff and turned away a bit more, making sure that his scars were as hidden as they could be. He knew even without the bard seeing them, he wouldn’t be considered handsome. He was too broad, too soft in places where his muscles should show and yet too bulky to not be intimidating. But it was nice hearing the word directed at him. The way the bard said it, Eskel could almost let himself believe that he meant it.

He risked another quick glance at the bard’s face and he found no trace of mockery in it.

“I’m Eskel,” he said, swallowing thickly when the bard’s smile grew into a full grin.

“I am Jaskier,” came the reply.

Eskel’s chest clenched uncomfortably. People didn’t offer witchers their names. They didn’t smile at them or talk to them without squirming in discomfort. They didn’t save goats from griffins and push witchers out of apparent danger.

And yet, Jaskier had done all those things. It did something strange to Eskel’s chest, something he wasn’t sure he liked. He knew he should just leave. Get his pay and forget all about the man with the lovely voice and the blue eyes.

Instead, he heard himself asking, “Would you like to go back to town with me?”

It was a foolish thing to ask and Eskel knew the answer before Jaskier even opened his mouth.

But instead of coming up with an excuse of flat out refusing the preposterous offer, Jaskier’s face brightened. “Of course!” He winked and Eskel’s insides gave a strange twist at the unexpected gesture. “After all, I promised Lil’ Bleater to get her back safely. And I would be loath to part with the lovely thing already.”

Jaskier’s teasing tone allowed no doubt that it wasn’t the goat he wanted to spend more time with.

“I’m sure she would hate saying goodbye to you already as well,” Eskel replied in a strangely choked voice.

A soft laugh tumbled from Jaskier’s lips and Eskel felt the corner of his own lips twitch up in turn, for once not caring how his smile twisted his face. With the way Jaskier’s eyes softened at Eskel’s smile, he almost began to think that this strange man that saved goats and called him handsome, could see Eskel as something other than a scarred and shunned witcher.

His heart fluttered at the thought and as he held up a hand to pull Jaskier up from the ground and Jaskier took it without hesitation, Eskel thought that for the first time he could dare take the risk and find out if Jaskier’s smile would maybe stay on him a little longer.

He was almost certain that it would.